How To Be A Gentleman: For Dummies
by Mandelene
Summary: Little America has much to learn from his big brother in the art of gentlemanliness, seeing as there are many steps as to how one becomes a gentleman. England's gentleman guide for dummies guarantees success and visible results in as little as one century of schooling. Join the pair on their adventure into the world of proper mannerisms.
1. Learn To Hunt

"America? What, dare I ask, is taking you so long?" England groaned, impatiently tapping his foot at the base of the stairs.

A flurry of scurrying could be heard above England's head as a certain little colony excitedly prepared for today's escapade with his big brother. The creaking, wooden floorboards gave off their own groan, much like England's, as if to persuade the boy to make his way out of the house already.

"Young man, if you are not down here in the next ten seconds, I'm leaving you behind. The sun will have set by the time you have finished preparing yourself," England warned, willing himself to keep his voice calm, but stern.

"I'M COMING! DON'T LEAVE ME!" the boy screeched from his bedroom, flinging the door open with a pronounced bang before hurtling his way down the stairs, a pocketknife and crumpled map close at hand. He tore his way down each step, nearly running into his brother as he bolted for the door.

He was really quite the sight, seeing as he was clad in one of England's spare, three-pointed hats, which was much too large for his head, and blocked his vision as it slipped down his forehead. A leather satchel was slung across his chest before resting at his hip, engulfing his youthful frame. Finally, he was bundled up in his overcoat, ready to face the chilly, October air.

"America!" England managed to growl through his surprise at the epic entrance his charge had just performed.

"Huh?" America spun around rapidly, nearly tripping over his own boots. He threw his head back to raise the hat that was obscuring his eyes from the rest of the world, only to succeed in knocking it entirely off of his head.

"How many times must I tell you not to run in the house? If you can't behave civilly then you will just have to stay home," England cautioned, emerald eyes piercing through America's sapphire ones in an attempt to get him to settle down.

"Sorry," the colony mumbled dejectedly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as his cheeks blushed. "I'm just excited."

"I can see that, but we won't be able to catch anything if you're bouncing up and down the entire time," England stated firmly, eyes narrowing. "Hunting takes patience, strategic thinking, and silence."

America nodded pointedly in comprehension before bending down to gather his hat (actually, England's hat) off of the floor. He hugged it close to his body, afraid of losing it again.

"I believe that hat is much too big for you, lad," England smirked in amusement, leaning down to remove the article from his colony's hands.

"NO! Don't take it! I have to wear it if I wanna be a great hunter like you!" America shouted in protest, flailing his hands desperately as he tried to pull down on his brother's arms to get him to relent his hold on the hat. _Curse his short stature. _

"It's 'want to', and if it really means that much to you, I can buy you your own hunting hat; preferably, a much smaller one," England rationalized, patting America's head with a sigh. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get that stubborn cowlick to stay down. It looked improper, a real mess, but England had tried everything, including trimming it with scissors. In its place, a new cowlick would grow, even more stubborn than the first.

"Okay," America conceded, surrendering the battle and returning the hat to its proper master, though he wasn't happy about it in the least.

"Oh, don't give me that doe-eyed look, lad. Fine, you can wear the hat if you'd like, but if it gets in the way, you'll have to take it off," England gave in, plopping the hat on his colony's head with a small smile.

"Yay!" America cheered, brightening up instantly. His eyes burned with a renewed fire as he grabbed England's hand and dragged him out the door.

"What are we going to hunt? I don't want to hurt any buffalo!" America said worryingly; he'd become quite attached to the land's decreasing buffalo population.

"No, we're going to try to hunt a turkey. We have to start out small," England explained, guiding his colony out into the woods.

"Oh, this is going to be so much fun!" America squealed, squeezing England's hand tightly as the pair trekked further and further into the forest. All seemed silent apart from the singing birds scattered among the canopy of trees overhead. America watched them in awe, neglecting England's orders to watch his feet as he walked. He promptly tripped over a branch, but seeing as he was still holding his brother's hand, he was steadied back onto his feet before he even came close to hitting the ground.

"America, if you're not more vigilant, we're going to have a big problem on our hands," England chided, checking the colony over for any scrapes before deeming him fit to continue onward.

It seemed like they had been walking for ages, and just as America began to open his mouth to voice a complaint, England ceased his walking abruptly, pulling America down to a kneeling position on the ground along with him.

"Hey, what—"

"Shh," England hissed urgently, pointing to a small thicket of bushes just a few yards away. "Look over there."

America's eyes curiously roamed over to where his brother was pointing. Sure enough, there in the distance stood a turkey. A wonderful, beautiful, immensely fat turkey that made America's eyes water in amazement. It was big and blanketed in a plethora of brown-shaded feathers. All that walking hadn't been in vain. They had finally spotted their prey.

"Now, listen closely to me. Turkeys aren't difficult to catch," England whispered importantly, sitting right behind America.

"Why is he making that noise?" America whispered back, startled by a distinct sound that the animal was making.

"It's purring."

"Purring? I thought only cats purred!"

"Shh!" England suppressed a groan. "Would you let off it already? We're supposed to shoot it, not sit around and watch it purr."

"Okay, sorry," America hastily apologized. He felt England quietly rummaging around behind him.

"Now, there's no rush. This forest is overflowing with turkeys, so if we miss this one, there's no need to be upset. You've never used a hunting rifle before, so I'm going to teach you right now. First, stand up slowly," England ordered, pulling the boy back up as both of them returned to a standing position. Carefully, England placed the rifle into America's hands, adjusting the positioning of his fingers with practiced ease.

"Rule number one; always treat the gun with caution when it's loaded. Better safe than sorry. Keep it pointed at the target, but don't put your fingers on the trigger until you are ready to shoot," England began slowly, aiding America from behind.

"Good, good. Now, have your weaker shoulder face the target. So your left shoulder should be—yes, just like that. Move the rifle closer to your head, so that your cheek is pressing against the stock," England steadily guided the gun into the desired position, and then wrapped his arms around America, holding the gun along with him.

"Now you're ready to aim and fire," England announced, his hands lying directly on top of America's.

"You're going to shoot it with me?" America asked quietly, hands quivering in anticipation.

"Of course, you didn't think I was just going to let you shoot by yourself on your first try, did you?" England's face twisted into a reassuring smile upon the realization that that had been exactly what America had been thinking, which explained his pale face and trembling hands.

"Believe me, in a few moments, you'll be glad I'm right behind you," England whispered with a cryptic smirk.

"W-What do you mean?" America stammered, but refused to look back to meet his brother's face.

"Next," England went on, ignoring America, "focus on the front sight and center it —very good, you're a natural at this. Now, when I tell you to, you are going to squeeze the trigger; do _not_ pull it. Squeeze it until you feel a resistance, and then keep squeezing it to the rear until it fires. Understand?" England queried, his steady voice soothing the young boy standing in front of him.

"Yes," America whispered in a strained tone. He couldn't believe he was doing this. He was about to shoot an animal. A turkey, nonetheless! He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, invigorating him with a feeling of fluttering butterflies in his stomach.

"Just relax. I'll help you. Here's the fun part. I'm going to try to call the turkey closer. We're going to let it know of our presence," England whispered back, smiling again.

"Won't it get scared and run away?" America asked shakily, he was starting to feel nauseous from all this anxiety.

"Maybe, though I doubt it. Stupid birds, turkeys, really," England muttered then began making a horrible yelping noise that vibrated throughout the forest, the sharp sound bouncing off the trees. It was high-pitched and repetitive in tone.

"Agh," America grimaced.

"That's a basic turkey hunting call," England said matter-of-factly. America silently pleaded that the man had been kidding, but he looked as serious as ever.

The turkey looked up in bewilderment, and began putting, which England explained was a sound turkeys made as an alarm to indicate that they are in danger.

"You have little time to shoot now because it'll go running off soon," England hurriedly whispered, hands still wrapped around America's. Seconds felt like hours as the colony braced himself to shoot, just a few more seconds and the turkey would be right where he wanted him.

"Now." England spoke sharply, pressing down on America's hands to help him with the procedure. America squeezed the trigger as best as he could, surprising himself as a loud ring broke through the atmosphere. He screwed his eyes shut, fearful that he had missed or something had gone terribly wrong, but before he could second-guess himself further, he was being flung backwards from the force of the rifle's shot, knocking right into England's chest. Thus, resulting in both boys falling to the ground. His brother's hat went flying off of America's head and into the grass next to him.

America whimpered from his spot on the grassy, overgrown ground, terrified by what he had just done. However, he quieted as England's hearty laugh broke through the silence. It dissolved all the worst-case scenarios from America's mind instantaneously.

"Well done! Wonderful! That was absolutely brilliant, my boy!"

America opened his eyes. England was hovering over him again, holding out an arm to help his colony stand up as well.

"W-Was I s-supposed to fall back?" America stuttered, still letting the situation sink it. He placed England's hat back on his head swiftly, letting out a puff of air that he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"I'd be amazed if you hadn't. There's a reason I was standing right behind you. The force of shooting a rifle is always shocking for a first timer. Someone needed to cushion the effects of the blow," England said loftily, scooping America into his arms after abandoning the rifle on the ground.

The boy wrapped his arms around England's neck, still shaken. "Did I get it?"

"You certainly did," England nodded, kissing America's hat-covered head reassuringly. "You're precision was remarkable."

"Really?" America asked incredulously. That had by far been the most horrifying, yet exhilarating experience of his entire life.

"Yes, really. Spectacular! A natural talent! This is great news," England continued absently, making his way over to the dead turkey. It had been a clean shot.

"I DID IT! I DID IT! Will you teach me how to shoot your musket next time?" America spoke hotly into England's shoulder, too afraid to look at the turkey for the moment.

England chuckled as he picked up the turkey by its legs, it was rather heavy, but nothing the island nation couldn't handle. "If we hunted with only our muskets, we would've died of starvation, lad. They're terribly inaccurate and are usually used in the military for linear tactics. You can't aim at a single target with it," England explained with an air of professionalism. "Now, I say we go back home and cook you a sturdy dinner in celebration."

"Can we eat the turkey?" America asked hopefully.

"Not today, love. It needs to be plucked and properly prepared. That might take the rest of the day. We can eat the fish I caught yesterday," England replied mildly. He adjusted America so that he was being supported by his right arm, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and picked up the turkey with his free hand, beginning the long stroll back home.

"Thank you for teaching me to be a brave hunter like you, England," America whispered softly, suddenly very tired. England's hat slid down over his cowlick and shielded his eyes once more, making him look that much more adorable.

England chuckled once more, "Of course, love. A young man has to know how to catch his food."

America nodded into England's shoulder sleepily, all tuckered out. "Gentlemen bring food to the family table," he recited, head lolling with each of England's footfalls.

England smiled warmly. "Yes, you were quite a brave gentleman today, America. I'm very proud of you."

America groggily grinned, basking in the feeling of self-satisfaction swelling inside of his chest. He let himself doze off on England's shoulder, his inhalations growing even and slow.

"You really have to stop falling asleep on me, lad," England murmured as the pair neared the house. He dropped the turkey off in the yard before heading inside with his colony, finally removing the hat that the boy had been practically worshipping for the entire trip. He carried America up to his bedroom, took his satchel off of his shoulder, and laid him in bed before stripping him of his leather boots.

He was roused awake just as England was tucking him in.

"England?" he rasped, voice laden with lethargy.

"Yes, love? I'm right here."

"Today was the best day ever," America finished with a yawn, rubbing his eyes.

England brushed bits of hair off of America's forehead. "I'm glad you had a good time."

"I feel bad about killing the turkey though," America added, glowering. "I don't want to see it until its cleaned and cooked."

England laughed. "It's alright, poppet. I'm sure he's in turkey-heaven right now."

"Okay," America sighed contentedly, "Let me know when dinner is ready."

"Of course, my gluttonous colony. We can't keep you hungry; lord knows you'd be whining all night," England smirked. "Sleep tight until then. You've had an exciting day." The nation placed a final kiss on the boy's forehead and shut the curtains to dim the room before making his way downstairs.

On the small table next to the base of the steps, rested England's old hat, covered in a few clumps of grass from the abuse it had suffered at the hands of his colony. England picked it up with a sad smile, flustered that America venerated him as some type of hero. He might as well let the boy keep the hat if he was so fond of it. After all, he'd grow into it eventually.

Besides, England had had enough adventures for one lifetime. Now, it was America's turn to continue the legacy of being a proper gentleman.


	2. Learn To Score With The Ladies

**Author's Note: Yet another chapter to the collection of gentlemanly adventures in this story. I hope you enjoy it!**

**Warning: Massive doses of fluff have been injected into this story.**

**Fun Fact: This entire chapter was written to Phil Collin's "Son of Man" from the Tarzan soundtrack on an endless loop. xD**

* * *

"America, you look awfully downtrodden over there. Are you feeling alright?" England questioned worriedly as he stacked the final pile of clean dishes and stowed them in the pantry. He swept over to his colony at the kitchen table, dishtowel still at hand, and rested his fingers against America's forehead, checking for a fever.

"I'm fine!" America snapped, crossing his arms in frustration. He ducked his head away from England's smothering touch.

Surely enough, the skin underneath England's palm had been dry and cool. "Then what's the matter? You seem very put-out," he observed, kneeling down next to his colony's chair in order to be eye-level with him.

"I don't want to talk about it," America huffed in an attempt to look exasperated, though his pudgy, boyish-face wouldn't allow it. Even when angry, the child looked precious.

"Hmm," England furrowed his caterpillar brows and set a comforting hand on America's shoulder. "Are you sure about that? You know, it helps to talk about these types of things. You might feel better if you get it off your chest."

England could tell America was just itching to tell someone about his dilemma, but something, possibly a deep sense of humiliation, was holding him back.

"You know you can tell me anything," England continued his prodding. He could see that the words were right there on America's tongue, just waiting to be set free from the entrapment of his mouth. His throat was forming jumbled sounds, causing a whimpering sound to emit from him.

"Marie invited me to her birthday party tomorrow," America revealed before he could stop himself. He slapped his hands to his mouth with a groan. He had never been good at keeping secrets, which made things much easier for England's parenting techniques in the long run. It never took too much effort to get the child to spill his thoughts.

"Marie? Is she that little colonial girl down the road? I know her father. He's a blacksmith, if I recall correctly," England interrogated casually. That had not been the answer that he had expected from America, but it had certainly made the situation more interesting.

England usually encouraged his colony to interact with the humans in town. It was important for America to develop into a socially competent, young man, able to convey his thoughts to his peers with ease. He would often let America play with his human friends to help him understand that nations and humans weren't really all that different from one another. In fact, whenever England was in Europe, America would constantly plead that the nanny let him spend time with his friends in the afternoons. Since England had returned to his colony, the younger boy had always insisted that the two spend most of their time together.

"Yes, that's her," America nodded, deciding that since the secret had already been confessed, there was no reason not to go into further detail.

"Okay, and would you like to attend this birthday party?" England inquired smoothly.

"NO!" America screeched, startling England.

"Why not? What's wrong with going to Marie's party?" England scrutinized, taken aback.

"I can't go to her party because I… I like her," America finished lamely, eyes swimming with tears as his cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"Well, she's your friend; you're supposed to like her," England responded obliviously, completely missing the crucial point in America's statement.

"I don't just like her as a _friend_, England!" America squawked; the tips of his ears had turned an ugly shade of tomato red. "Don't you know anything about _love_?"

England grinned widely, dumbfounded. "_Oh._"

"Don't look at me like that," America cried out hysterically, a single tear rolling from his eye. "I knew you'd laugh. I knew you wouldn't understand!"

"I'm not laughing," England assured, composing himself by forcing his muscles to stop smiling. "I'm just surprised that you've taken an interest in this girl."

America swiped a tiny hand across his teary eyes. "If I go her party, I won't know what to say and I'll be all embarrassed! She might laugh at me!"

"Oh, love," England couldn't keep his toothy grin subdued any longer. His face was beaming with glee as his lips quirked upward. America was starting to have girl problems. America had his first, potential girlfriend! It was all too adorable for England to handle heedlessly.

"It's not funny!" America sobbed, throwing his head dramatically onto the surface of the kitchen table with a thud.

"I'm sorry," England apologized immediately, rubbing America's arm. "I'm sure I could help you talk to Marie, if you'd like."

"Really? You'd do that? What do you know about girls?" America queried, his blue eyes twinkling with hope as he lifted his head from the table.

"You know, I used to be quite the catch," England remarked, clearing his throat for added effect as he ran a hand through his blond hair. "I can teach you how to be just as charming."

"Okay!" America perked up, jumping down from his chair and wrapping England in a tight hug.

England smiled, patting the boy's head. "First, we have to think of what type of gift we should get Marie. What do you think she would like?"

"A toy gun!" America replied without a second thought.

"America, that's what _you_ would like," England rolled his eyes, pulling away from America's embrace.

"Well, who wouldn't want a toy gun?" America cocked his head in confusion.

"America, lad," England began warmly, putting his hands on the colony's shoulders, "you have to understand that Marie is a young _lady_. She wouldn't like a gun."

"Oh," America frowned in deep concentration. "Then what do girls like?"

"How about we get her a new doll or a stuffed animal? I'm sure she'd appreciate that very much," England suggested.

"Okay," America happily agreed.

"Excellent," England's smile returned. He stood up from his crouched position and put away the dish towel before walking back toward America and taking his hand, guiding him to the front door.

"Where are we going?" America asked, craning his neck to look up at England.

"We're going to buy Marie's gift before the market place closes for the night."

England bit back an amused laugh. Was it really wise to let his colony become so attached to a human? They were just children with petty crushes on each other, what trivial harm could it do to just allow the attraction to bloom?

* * *

"Ow! That hurts! Stop it, England!" America wailed, swatting his little hands at England's larger ones.

"If I could just get this cowlick to stay down, all would be swell," England grumbled to himself, raking a comb through his younger brother's hair.

"It's not going to stay! You're hurting me!" America whined, trying to haul his poor head away from England's wrath.

"You need to look presentable, America. Marie won't be impressed if you show up to her party with bedraggled hair," England repeated calmly for the umpteenth time.

"I thought you said it's what's on the _inside_ that counts!" America mocked, scrunching up his nose in irritation.

"Yes, but it doesn't hurt to try to look your best." England clicked his tongue at a particularly stubborn strand of golden hair.

"But it _does _hurt!" America complained more loudly.

"Hush, I'm almost done," England sighed, finally placing the comb down in satisfaction. "There's still nothing I can do about that wretched cowlick, but it'll have to do."

America extracted his head from his brother's proximity and ran out of the room, taking advantage of his opportunity of gaining his freedom.

England grudgingly followed his colony out of the bathroom and down the stairs. Once the pair was ready to go, England handed America a small batch of dandelions.

"What are these for?" America asked, sniffing the flowers before letting out a scratchy sneeze.

"They're for Marie. Don't sniff them; you know that you're allergic to the pollen," England chided.

"Okay, but you still didn't tell me what I should say to Marie when I get to the party," America reminded, growing impatient.

"Well, young ladies like to be complimented," England noted, walking out the front door with his colony.

"So what do I compliment her on?" America persisted, clinging to his older brother's arm nervously.

"Well, what do you like about Marie?"

America pondered the question for a moment before replying, "She's really pretty."

"What is it about her that makes you think she's pretty?"

"She has really nice brown hair and brown eyes," America commented, blushing slightly at the revelation.

"So, you should tell her that you like her eyes. Women love to be told they have beautiful eyes," England informed his brother, guiding them down the path to Marie's house. The man was silently relishing in the fact that he was able to play matchmaker for the day.

"Okay," America gulped as they neared their destination. "Is it okay to be nervous, England?"

"Of course, it's only natural that you—"

"ALFRED!" a young girl squealed, running up to America and wrapping her hands around his waist. "You made it to my party! Daddy said that your brother told him you were coming, but I didn't believe him." She turned to England and stuck her hand out. "Hello, Mr. Kirkland."

"Hello, Marie. Happy birthday, dear," England smiled cordially, shaking her hand. "Am—Alfred brought you a gift." He inwardly chided himself upon the realization that he'd almost slipped up. He'd gotten out of the habit of using America's human name.

America bit his lower lip and stuck out his trembling hands. In his right hand were the dandelions, while his left was clutching a giant, beige teddy bear with a pink ribbon around its neck.

"Wow! Alfred, thank you!" Marie smiled from ear to ear, taking the gifts from America's hands. "We can go play in the backyard with our other friends, if you want."

America stood speechlessly, and now that his hands were free, he was wringing his fingers like a madman. England had never witnessed his brother being so shy before.

"O-Okay," he finally gasped as England's hands nudged him forward.

"I'm going to go and join the adults for some tea, Alfred. I'll be inside if you need anything," his brother winked, unable to stop himself from teasing America just the slightest bit. America scowled, but refrained from retorting any nasty comments back at him, considering that the action was ungentlemanly in the presence of a lady (according to England).

America followed the young girl to the back of the house, feeling awfully self-conscious as he felt his hands growing sweaty. He'd never felt this way about a girl before and the feeling itself was all very surreal.

Marie abandoned him for a minute to place the bear and flowers safely in the house before heading back outside to all the other children. America noticed a few other colonial boys climbing trees and rolling around in the grass while the girls were huddled off in their own corner, talking to each other fervently.

"Marie, over here!" one of the girls called, beckoning her forward.

"Coming!" she replied before turning back to America with another dazzling smile. "I'll talk to you later. Okay, Alfred?"

America returned the smile sheepishly, cheeks burning as he nodded weakly, feeling slightly dizzy. He watched Marie run off to the other girls before he went to go see what was going on with the boys who were climbing in the large tree.

"Hey, Al!" a rather chubby boy with green eyes regarded him. "Come join us! Let's see who can climb up the highest!"

America froze in place for a moment; England had strictly banned him from climbing any trees, claiming that he could get hurt if he ever did something so foolish.

"No thanks," he murmured back. "I don't feel like it."

"Aww! Come on!" another boy shouted from his position on a low branch. "Don't be such a chicken!"

At this, the group of girls at the other end of the yard twisted their heads to see what all the commotion was about. Marie was among one of those girls.

"I'm not a chicken!" America shouted back. He was brave! He was the hero, and he wasn't going to look like a big, scared baby in front of Marie.

"Oh, really? PROVE IT!" the chubby boy said daringly, fully expecting America to decline the offer once more.

"FINE, I will!" America breathed out forcefully. He rolled up the sleeves of the collared shirt England had dressed him in and began his journey up the large tree, determined to get to the top and prove all the other boys wrong. He silently prayed that Marie was watching this, hoping she'd be impressed with his climbing abilities.

America dug his feet into the ridges of the tree bark and grabbed the nearest branch, heaving his body further up the trunk. He climbed and climbed like he had never climbed before; beginning to sweat from the energy he had diminished. By the time he took a moment to glance down, he was nearly at the top.

He grinned triumphantly as he watched all the other boys climb down from the tree so that they could get a good look at how high up he was. Marie was definitely going to be impressed; there was no doubt in his mind.

Then, a sense of impending doom swallowed America mercilessly. He was so high up. _Too _high up. If he fell now, he'd surely break his neck. Frightened at the various tragic scenarios that worked their way into his imagination, America began climbing down, not comfortable with the idea of being so far above the ground. Unfortunately, he underestimated the distance of the next branch below him, and promptly began his tumble down the tree trunk. With a terrified yelp, America threw his hands up above his head, desperately groping around for something to stop him from plummeting to his death.

Finally, just as he was at the halfway point down the tree, America latched onto a strong-looking branch, clinging to it for dear-life.

"Alfred!" Marie's shrill voice rang through his mind as the other children gasped involuntarily in unison. "Hang on! I'll get help!"

America tried to protest, fully aware that England was going to beat him to a pulp and make juice out of him after this. Yet, he had no room to argue, considering he was helplessly dangling from the tree and had sustained a good number of scrapes during his precarious downfall. In fact, his left wrist was aching rather painfully, causing him to lessen his grip on the branch and focus more on hanging on with his right arm.

"ALFRED!" England's voice roared as he stormed out of the house with the rest of the adults lagging shortly behind him. He raced to the base of the tree in record time. "Get down from there this instant!"

America had braced himself for England's lecture, but nothing could have prepared him for the pang of vulnerability that hammered into his chest. He began crying, completely forgetting about Marie, the parents, and the rest of the children in the yard. Right now it was just him and England.

"Arthur! I can't get down! I'm going to fall!" America sobbed, his arms growing tired from holding all of his weight.

England's green eyes widened as he watched America swing dangerously from the branch. "It'll be okay, Alfred! Just let go and I'll catch you!" England assured, holding his arms open.

"N-No! What if you d-drop me? I'm scared, Arthur! Help me!" America begged, unaware of the other parents scattering around and offering their assistance to England.

"It's alright," England assured the concerned parents. "Just hang on tight for me, lad. I'm going to come up and get you."

America just cried more heavily, tears falling onto the grass that seemed miles below his feet. He was going to die from climbing a stupid tree. He swore that if he lived to tell the tale, he'd never touch another death trap like this again.

England was on his way up in an instant, cautiously working his way up to his colony. He didn't care that what he was doing was undignified. Sometimes a gentleman had to throw out the rule book and just help those in need, regardless of what it would take.

"A-Arthur! Hurry! I can't hold on much longer!" America screeched, squeezing his eyes shut as more tears cascaded down his face. He hung from the branch numbly, arms threatening to lose their grip at any moment.

"Open your eyes, Alfred," England urged, his warm voice echoing through America's brain.

America obliged through his fear, blinking in surprise when he noticed that England was right beside the branch he was hanging from, holding out a strong arm for him to grasp.

"Take my hand. Don't be afraid, love. I won't let you fall," England spoke gingerly, extending his arm as far as it would go.

America shakily released his injured left arm from the branch, taking England's hand before releasing his right arm from its vice-grip as well.

England swept him forward with barely a second's notice, holding America close to his chest.

America held onto his brother tightly as he led them down the rest of the tree, never releasing himself from England's hold, even when they were on safe ground once more.

"Oh, thank goodness you're alright, Alfred," Marie's mother breathed a sigh of relief, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his head.

Only then did America become aware of the other children and parents crowding him, each asking if he was unscathed. He felt his cheeks burn with humiliation, not trusting himself to even let his eyes search for Marie in the crowd. He'd just ruined her party, after all.

"Arthur, let's get him inside and checked out," Marie's father recommended, and England nodded his consent.

England wordlessly carried the traumatized child into the building, setting him down on the kitchen counter. Marie's dad hovered a short distance away, gathering some first aid supplies. When the three were left alone in the silence of the house, England finally spoke.

"Are you alright?" he queried sternly, gazing intently at America's blue eyes in a way that made the boy uncomfortable. He was about eight years old physically, but felt like a naughty four-year old under his older brother's watchful eyes.

"I-I'm okay," America sniffled, "but I think I h-hurt my hand when I fell."

"Yes, Marie managed to recount the entire tale to me as I ran outside," England replied with a weary smile. "Let me see it."

America slowly extended his left hand to England, showing him the swollen wrist fearfully.

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Charles, I think it's broken."

It took America a moment to realize that England was talking to Marie's father. He walked up to the pair, bandages at hand and nodded in agreement as England bent America's hand gently in a few awkward positions.

"Ouch!" America groaned, trying to pull his hand away.

"Hold still. You're in big trouble once we get you patched up, young man," England told him firmly, giving America that same calculating look that made him squirm.

"We'll put a splint on it. It doesn't look too serious," Marie's dad announced calmly, beginning to bandage America's wrist with tender hands while England went to work on cleaning America's bleeding cuts and scrapes that littered his upper arms, forehead, and torso.

"That stings!" America whined as England dabbed at the gash on his forehead.

"Good," England replied apathetically. "Maybe you'll think twice before doing something so foolish in the future. You gave us all the scare of a lifetime. You're always causing some sort of chaos, lad."

"I'm sorry. I was just trying to prove to everyone that I'm brave," America pouted as his brother pressed a square of gauze to his cut and taped it in place.

"Brave men stand down from what they know is wrong. I told you that you weren't allowed to climb any trees because it was dangerous, and now, here's the proof. You could have been seriously hurt! Do you have any idea how upset I'd be if I ever lost you?" England lectured fretfully with a deep frown, creases appearing in his forehead. "Don't ever scare me like that again."

America nodded pathetically, eyes swimming with guilty tears.

"Oh, come here," England relented in his firm stance, wrapping his arms around America with a heavy sigh. "Scared the living daylights out of me," he grumbled unhappily. "Don't cry. I'm the one who should be bloody crying."

America smiled softly through his tears at his brother's mild swearing.

"All done!" Marie's father grinned soothingly, releasing America's wrist, which was firmly being held in place by a makeshift cast.

"Thank you," America whispered, observing the man's work.

"It's the least I could do. I'm so sorry this ever happened. I'll be sure to speak to the parents of the boys that were provoking little Alfred. Elizabeth should be in to bring out the cake any minute now. You're both welcome to stay, but I can tell how worried you are, Arthur," Marie's dad finished with a sympathetic smile.

"Thank you, Charles. I suppose it'd be impolite to leave before Marie gets her birthday cake," England sighed, looking down at his little colony with another frown. "You aren't leaving my sight for the remainder of the day, Alfred. We're going to have a nice, long talk when we get home."

America groaned, but quieted upon meeting England's stern eyes. He hopped down from the counter and followed England outside. The cake was brought out ten minutes later, coated with burning candles. Everyone sang "Happy Birthday" to Marie and let her blow out the candles before digging into the sweet treat.

"This is the last dessert you'll be having for a while, America, so you best enjoy it," England whispered before wiping his colony's grimy face off with a handkerchief. The boy had managed to thoroughly cover himself in a layer frosting after just five minutes. It had been difficult to eat while balancing the plate on his injured wrist, but he had refused to allow England to feed him the cake like a baby. He'd already embarrassed himself enough in front of Marie.

After everyone had finished their cake, England began to lead America away from the yard, but he was stopped by Marie on his way out.

"Alfred? I thought it was really brave of you to try to prove to those boys that you could climb the tree. I'm glad you're okay," she spoke shyly, brown eyes blinking thoughtfully.

"Thanks," America replied, finally finding the voice that he had been lacking when he had first encountered the young girl today. "Y'know, you have really pretty brown eyes."

England tried not to break out into a huge grin from behind America, determined to keep himself composed and quiet. He had to give the two their privacy. He stepped back from the children silently.

It was Marie's turn to blush. "Thanks. Your eyes are nice too. They're really blue like the sky when the sun is out. I also really like the gift you got me."

"Sure, no problem. Happy eighth birthday again," America smiled warmly, gaining some confidence in himself.

"Thanks," Marie murmured before pointing to England, who was standing a few yards away, leaning against a fence. "Your brother looks really happy over there."

America inwardly groaned. "He's just being a weirdo. Anyway, it was nice talking to you, Marie. I'm sorry if I ruined your party."

"No, it's okay! I'm not mad or anything like that. I had a good time. I guess I'll see you soon? Bye, Alfred," she smiled. She glanced down at her feet for a moment before reaching over and pecking a quick kiss on Alfred's cheek.

They both grew as red as apples. America forced himself to drown out the sound of England's joyful chuckling in the background.

"Bye, Marie," he smiled sheepishly, waving to her as they each walked away in opposite directions.

America shortly met up with England, who smiled at him encouragingly. "Time to go home to take a nice, warm bath, and then it's straight to bed."

America nodded without a single complaint. He was still smiling from the feeling of Marie's kiss against his cheek. "She wasn't angry at me for almost falling from the tree."

"She must have a forgiving nature," England scoffed, still upset at America for disobeying him.

"It all worked out in the end," America stated, lifting a hand up to touch the cheek that had been kissed. "You were right, England, being a gentleman pays off."

"Yes, you're growing into quite a charming man, but I must remind you that gentlemen do not climb trees," England reinforced, ruffling America's hair as they walked.

"Wow, the things we gentlemen have to do for the ladies… It's crazy!" America cried out, throwing his hands into the air dramatically. "I mean I almost killed myself for that kiss!"

England chuckled, patting America's shoulder reassuringly. "You know, America, I think you're going to do just fine in the love department from now on."


	3. Learn To Swim

**Warning: Extreme fluff awaits you; prepare yourself accordingly. **

* * *

"America, I'm waiting," England hummed patiently, standing waist-deep in water under the sweltering, summer sun.

"I-I'm coming," America reassured, wrapping his towel even more securely around his small form. His feet were still clad in his leather sandals as he approached the edge of the water.

"Lad, you have to take your shoes off, and leave your towel behind," England coaxed calmly, dunking his blond head of hair into the water to keep cool while waiting.

"R-Right," America stammered, releasing his hold on the towel and letting it fall to his ankles. He took an excruciatingly long amount of time to take off his shoes.

England smiled at his brother warmly. He said teasingly, "Don't tell me you're afraid of a little water."

"No!" America backfired fervently, fully knowing his brother was purposefully egging him on. "I'm_ not_ scared!"

"Then why are you so hesitant to begin our lesson?" England asked, turning over on his back and allowing himself to float along the surface of the water absently.

America disregarded his question. "Can you teach me how to do that?" he queried excitedly, eyes widening at England's floating figure.

"Yes, of course I'll teach you how to float on water. It's one of the first things you need to learn before beginning to swim, but I can only do that if you _come into the water_," England emphasized, standing up once more. "Why are you so frightened, America? What's troubling you?" he pressed on seriously, no longer teasing the little colony.

"I… England, I was just wondering…" America began slowly, gazing at the reflection of the sun against the water.

"Yes, what is it, poppet?"

"Are there _sharks_ in the water?" America asked worriedly, wiggling his toes in the grass.

It took all of England's willpower to suppress his urge to burst out laughing at the ridiculous question. Still, he couldn't keep the amusement out of his tone as he said, "No, love. I can promise you that there aren't any sharks in this lake. Now will you come into the water? I can't teach you to swim while you're on land, lad."

Seemingly satisfied, America nodded and dipped his bare feet into the shallow part of the lake. However, he quickly second guessed himself and retracted from the liquid-monster, staring in shock at the offending substance that had touched his skin.

"What now?" England groaned tiredly.

"It's FREEZING!" America exclaimed indignantly, rubbing his feet together awkwardly.

"That's because you've been standing in the hot sun for nearly half an hour! Your body will adjust to the temperature if you just _trust me_," England told his colony firmly. He trudged his way over to the edge of the lake and held his arms out for America to take, determined to get the boy to get over his ridiculous fear of the water. He'd learn to love it if he just gave the idea the chance.

"I-I don't want to go swimming today," America whispered softly, still glaring at the lake water.

"That's not an option," England murmured, reaching his hands up and out of the lake to grasp America's arms. Before the colony could register what was happening, he was being dropped into shallow water that rose up to his waist. England grinned at him toothily, cocking an eyebrow playfully at the young boy. The water level only reached the nation's knees as he patted America on the head. "That's much better," he spoke thoughtfully.

"C-C-Cold!" America pouted, shaking his head away from England's traitorous touch.

"I know," England replied, "it's fantastic, isn't it?"

America huffed, "You can be so mean sometimes."

"Oh, don't sulk, America. It doesn't suit you. Come here; let's teach you how to hold yourself up in the water." England beckoned his colony closer and lifted him up again before lying him down on the surface of the water just as England had been doing previously.

"I might sink! I'll drown! I can't swim!" America said wildly, struggling to get out of his older brother's grasp.

"Could you relax? You're in shallow water. I won't let you drown," England promised, sliding his hands under the water and laying them under America's back to hold him up. "See? I'm supporting you. Now, I need you to lay your head back, spread your legs out like a starfish, close your eyes, and take slow breaths," he instructed, never allowing his hands to leave America's back.

The colony unenthusiastically did as he was told, slowly relaxing.

"There's a good lad," England said motivationally. He let America stay in that position for a few moments before slowly pulling his hands away from the boy's back. He did it very gradually, but America still grew startled at the loss of contact. England shushed him as he completely let his hands let go of his brother.

"Alright," England smiled appraisingly. "You're floating, America."

America's eyes shot open and stared up at the bright blue sky. "How did I do that?" he cried out in surprise, but didn't budge from his position, soaking in the feeling of sweet success.

England chuckled and shrugged jokingly. "Magic."

"Sure," America responded skeptically. "Uh, England? Can I stop now?"

"Yes, you can. Try to do it once more, but by yourself. I'll be right by your side if you have any trouble."

And sure enough, America had successfully managed to repeat the task by himself, breaking out into an ecstatic smile at the prospect that he had finally reached an important milestone in learning how to swim. He had wanted to do this for a long time.

"Now that you can hold yourself on the water," England continued loftily, "it's time for you to try swimming." He got America on his stomach and grasped onto his arms. "Start kicking and I'll pull your arms forward for you."

America's kicks were sloppy and out of sync, causing him to quickly begin sinking, which was slightly problematic since they had moved to deeper water. He swallowed a mouthful of water and cried out helplessly as water entered his nose and stung uncomfortably in his nostrils. It was an awful sensation.

"Whoops. You're alright. Up we go," England spoke calmly as he latched onto America's shoulders firmly and pulled him out of the water. The boy choked and coughed on the water he had accidentally inhaled, spitting up on himself pitifully as the liquid dribbled down his chin. England pulled his colony close to his chest and let him bury his face in his shoulder as the little boy tried to recover from the shock.

"There, there," England whispered soothingly into his ear. "You just swallowed a bit of water. It's nothing to be so upset about. Let's try again, shall we?"

"No!" America spluttered, wiping a shaky hand across his mouth as he coughed up the final remains of water from his system. "I'll never learn how to swim! Let me go! I want to get out!"

England frowned, rubbing America's back. "Oh, lad, you mustn't give up so easily after a minor setback. Obviously you aren't going to do well on your first few tries."

"I want to get out, England!" America repeated loudly, hitting his hands tempestuously against his brother's back.

England sighed, walking with America to shallower water. "If you insist. I suppose these things take time and I shouldn't have rushed you as much as I did. After all, you've made some solid progress, though your kicking definitely needs some work."

America felt hot tears puddle in his eyes, quiet sobs wracking his frame as he leaned heavily against England. "I want to go _home_."

"Alright, don't cry, love," England carried America out of the lake and back on land, setting him down and wrapping the abandoned towel around his shivering stature. Goosebumps marred the colony's arms as England tried to rub him dry. He ran the fluffy towel through America's hair and wringed out the excess water from the dirty blond strands before picking up his own towel to dry off with.

When both figures were reasonably dry, England helped America put his t-shirt and sandals on again, giving him a reassuring kiss on the brow. "No more tears, alright?" he requested tenderly once America was dressed again, trying to bolster the boy's sprits.

America sniffled miserably with a sad nod, wrapping his towel around the back of his neck as he began walking off toward the house, England trailing a close distance behind.

They'd simply have to try again another day.

* * *

Another scorching, hot day presented itself precisely one week later as England and America lounged around the house, munching on the fish and chips England had prepared just moments prior.

"Wonderful weather for a nice swim, isn't it, America?" England noted casually, trying not to sound too eager or persistent.

"I guess," America droned dully, sticking a piece of fish into his mouth.

England glowered. There had to be something he could do to convince America to try to go swimming again. There was a reason why he had cooked America's favorite meal specifically for today. He had to put him in a good mood, knowing it would be much easier to bribe him under better conditions.

"I think I'm going to head out to the lake later today. Would you like to come with me?" England invited tentatively.

"No, I don't want to go swimming," America muttered back, distraught that England would even consider bringing up such a sensitive topic.

"_You_ don't have to go into the lake," England pointed out importantly. "_I_ on the other hand, would gladly go out for a swim. You can come get some fresh air or sit here and mope in the heat," he compromised.

America sighed with feigned distress, but England wasn't buying it for a minute. "I guess I have no choice then. I guess I could go out for a_ little_ while."

England inwardly praised himself for this small victory. Still, he would have to find a way to persuade America to go into the water with him. He sat back and searched his mind for a reasonable solution. After he had cleaned the dishes and America had helped him put all the silverware away, he finally devised the perfect plan, a mischievous smile already twisting his lips.

* * *

America sighed as he watched the clouds tread through the sky, picking out different shapes and creatures from the fluffy, white puffs. He could hear England splashing around in the water behind him, poking his head in and out of the lake as he swam to the other side and back. They'd arrived just twenty minutes ago, but America was quickly getting bored of constantly spotting shapes of bunnies in the clouds above him. He was just starting to doze off in the dry grass when a strangled cry echoed from somewhere nearby. He sat up abruptly, squinting through the harsh sunlight for the person in trouble.

Surprisingly enough, it was England, his arms flailing in and out of the water.

"England? Are you okay?" America shouted across the lake, unable to shove down the increasing fear swelling up in his heart. His worst fears were becoming a reality as England's head dipped under the water for a prolonged moment of time. "ENGLAND!"

He was drowning. England was drowning!

Unsure of what to do, America kicked off his shoes and ran to the edge of the water, concern trickling through his veins as he tried to decide how he should help.

"Help, America!" England cried out as his head resurfaced, blond hair bobbing out of the water. "It's got me!"

"What? What's got you?" America called back, trying not to hyperventilate.

England tried to improvise, hastily trying to come up with an explanation that America would find reasonably convincing. His mind immediately recalled his brother's horrified expression last week when he had asked a rather preposterous question.

"Erm—the shark! The shark's got me, America! Help!" England dived under the water again for a few seconds before popping up again, exaggerating a deep gasp for breath. It didn't take much acting on his part to get America to believe him. The boy was still extremely young and therefore, extremely gullible as well.

"S-Shark? Hang on, England!" America responded courageously. He jumped into the shallow water and ran into the lake, dead set on saving his brother from the supposed shark. "I'm coming to save you!" He kicked his legs hard and tried to remember everything England had lectured to him after his last horrible incident in the water. He paddled his arms furiously and kicked his way through the cold water, fighting against its resistance as he raced to aid his brother.

He'd been focusing entirely too hard on making his way over to England to realize that the strained shouts and calls for help had ceased suddenly.

Then, after what felt like a very long couple of seconds, America was being lifted out of the water by strong, dependable arms. His face was now pressed under England's chin and into his neck as the nation drifted over to the shallow end once more.

"E-England? You're alright?" America gasped, wide eyes blinking at England in relief as he shook the water out of his ears.

"You were swimming, America! I knew you could do it," the nation grinned, sitting America down in the grass a few, short moments later.

"You're okay! You're okay!" America shouted frantically, squeezing England in a bone crushing hug.

"Of course I'm okay. I promised you there were no sharks in the lake," England reminded, sitting down next to America. Both boys were soaking wet by this point.

"There was no shark?" America questioned, very flustered. "YOU TRICKED ME!" he finally screamed, accusing blue eyes piercing into his elder brother like daggers.

"Yes, and I'm sorry about that, but it was for your own good," England elaborated, wrapping his towel around America's shoulders. The boy had jumped into the water in his t-shirt and trousers, completely disregarding his lack of proper swimming attire.

"I thought you were hurt! I was so scared! You scared me!" America began crying helplessly into England's chest, tears completely unsuppressed. "I was worried!"

"Oh, love," England chuckled sympathetically. "I'm sorry for scaring you, but you were swimming! You were finally swimming!"

"Yeah," America sniveled. "I don't care though. I'm just glad a shark didn't _really_ get you."

England sat soundlessly, flabbergasted. Why didn't America care at all that he had achieved this great new skill? Had he really been so frightened for his safety?

"I'm sorry for scaring you, America. I didn't know that you would be so disconcerted," England placed a gentle hand on the crying child's shoulder.

"I was afraid I wouldn't be able to help you!" he howled. "I don't want to lose you."

"Oh, it's alright now," England comforted. "I'm right here, safe and sound with you. Thank you for trying to be my little hero. You never fail to help those in need." He ran his thumbs under America's eyes, wiping his tears away.

"Do you promise to never do that again?" America blubbered, sticking himself to England's arm snuggly.

"Yes, I promise," England smiled languidly; he was touched that his little colony was so attached to him.

"Pinky promise?" America went on, holding out his finger.

England nodded, taking America's pinky in his larger one and shaking it softly.

"Cross your heart?" America pleaded, his sobs dying down to small whimpers.

"Cross my heart," England smirked, picking America up and setting him on his lap. "I'm very proud of you for trying to save me, and for swimming to my rescue even though you were afraid."

America scoffed, "Me? Afraid? Yeah, right! I laugh at danger."

"Oh, really? BOO!" England roared straightaway, tickling America under his arms.

"EEK!" America shrieked in return, nearly falling off of England's lap. "Stop that! It's not funny anymore! You're always trying to scare me!"

England chuckled. "Well then, another crisis has been averted for today. I say we go home and figure out the next obstacle that we should tackle."

"I'm a master swimmer now," America said proudly. "Can you teach me to ice skate next?"

England exhaled wearily, "We'll have to wait a few months until winter, and I don't know whether I'll have to be back in Europe by then or not, but we'll see."

"Okay," America agreed contentedly. "It's okay if you can't. Mr. France said he could teach me anything I want to know when you go back to Europe."

England visibly flushed. "What? Absolutely not! You stay away from that good-for-nothing frog, alright, America? Don't you dare listen to a word he says, and if he ever lays a hand on you—"

America giggled. "I was just kidding. I know I'm not supposed to listen to Mr. France. You've told me that a million times."

"And you'd best not forget it," England warned, standing up with America.

"Is Mr. France a gentleman like us?" America wondered idly.

"Of course not. He's everything but," England muttered feverishly under his breath.

"It's okay, England. I'll be there to help you if Mr. France makes you mad again," America reassured confidently.

"My hero," England rolled his eyes. "How shall I ever repay the debt I owe you for saving me from that imaginary shark?"

"Um, maybe you could let me ride on your shoulders on the way home?" America asked innocently, big blue eyes blinking expectantly at his big brother.

England smiled affectionately, "Of course, my savior."


	4. Greet Rebellion

**Author's Note: So, our little America isn't so little anymore and that's bound to cause future problems.**

* * *

Where was that boy? It was nearly midnight and he still wasn't back from his little escapade with his other colonial friends. He had been given stern orders to return punctually, or his privileges of going out for fun would be taken away for as long as seen appropriate. He usually abided by the rules fairly well; never passing his curfew by more than twenty minutes, but obviously tonight was not going to be one of those nights. The boy was nearly two and a half hours over the time he had been allotted.

England was seriously beginning to worry. Perhaps, something horrible had happened. What if his colony had been hurt, had fallen ill, or been kidnapped? Worst case scenarios whizzed through the nation's brain as he paced around the living room, pledging that if the boy wasn't back in five minutes, he was going to go out and drag him home himself. Panic ate at his chest, his breaths growing more and more labored as seconds transitioned into torturous minutes.

Having had enough, England picked up his lantern and trench coat, reaching for the doorknob precisely when a sharp knock filled the house. Setting the lantern down on the side table, and hanging his coat back up, England opened the door quickly, hoping it was who he had been expecting so that he could give the boy a proper thrashing for worrying him to no end.

His prayers had been answered, but certainly not in the way England had expected. On his doorstep, stood an outraged Mr. Bennett, who happened to be his neighbor. His right hand was firmly gripped on the back of America's woolen sweater, the knuckles just above his fingers an ivory white. America was staring helplessly at his boots, sun-kissed hair veiling his face from England. He looked very much like a frightened pup that was hiding its tail under its rear after causing some serious mischief.

"Mr. Kirkland," Bennett began, his lips pursed firmly together, "I believe this young vandal belongs to you."

England stared down intently at his colony, green eyes boring holes in his head as he tried to get the child to face him. As suspected, jittery, oceanic eyes soon rose to meet their brother's, though they shifted around nervously, unable to focus on anything in particular for more than a second. If England thought he was going to give the boy a thrashing before, he was definitely going to get a proper throttling once this situation was cleared up.

But England managed to remain stolid; his temper cool and even. "Yes, Mr. Bennett. Thank you for escorting him home. I was beginning to grow worried. I do hope he hasn't caused too much trouble."

"Trouble? TROUBLE? My cat has been scarred for life! He'll never come out from under that couch for as long as he lives cause of _this_ boy and his little posse!" Bennett shouted, eyes ablaze with resentment.

England's eyes grew wide even through his attempts to remain stoic. What had America done this time? Sure, neither of them liked Mr. Bennett very much, and they would never be bosom friends with him, but that didn't grant America permission to run around terrorizing his cat.

"I apologize for Alfred's actions. May I ask of the damage he has caused?" England interrogated coolly. This time, he was the one who was determined not to meet his brother's eyes.

"I walked out onto my porch when I heard firecrackers bein' set off in my yard by some other boys. I chased 'em off real quick, but while I was distracted, _this one_, shaved my cat! Shaved him to the skin with a blade! My cat ain't never done nothin' wrong to nobody!" Bennett ranted madly, shaking America as he waved his free arm sporadically while speaking with that awful, colonial accent.

"I see," England hissed through clenched teeth. "Right, I shall handle the situation accordingly. I apologize for the harm done to your cat, Mr. Bennett. I'll stop by in the morning to discuss a way in which Alfred can earn his retribution. I'm sure he would be more than happy to make up for the mutilation of your pet."

"No, I don't want nothin' from this boy. Just keep him away from my property!" Bennett growled, releasing America and storming off into the dark night. His muttered swears sliced through the air as his figure disappeared down the road.

America cowered under England's towering stance, feeling like he was merely a naughty toddler again. He hadn't expected his friends to ditch him in the middle of the prank, leaving him to take all the heat for what had been done, which made him seem all the more liable. He'd take this one for the team without ratting out those backstabbing chickens, but they were going to owe him big time.

"Get inside, America," England finally commanded bitterly.

"England, I'm—"

"I don't wish to hear your frivolous pleas right now," England interjected venomously. "It's much too late at night for this, America. Get. Inside. Now."

America nodded morosely, sidestepping past his brother to get into the house. He removed his soggy, dew covered boots and placed them in the corner where they belonged before beginning to make his way up to his bedroom in an attempt to escape England's wrath. After all, it was late and maybe his brother would be merciful enough to let him sleep for now. The lecture could wait until tomorrow, couldn't it?

"Not so fast," England remarked, shutting the door and locking it. "Have a seat in the living room. We're going to have a nice talk."

_No such luck._

America fought his urge to scoff. He certainly wouldn't have used the word _nice _in that context. He adhered to his brother's instructions, walking back down the way he'd came and over to the living room couch, waiting for the long scolding to ensue.

England stood in front of him, eyes glaring down at him in a way that made him fidget uncomfortably.

"You _shaved_ his _cat_?" England cried out, running a tired hand through his hair.

America folded his hands and wiggled his thumbs restlessly before responding bluntly, "Yes."

England was thoroughly dumbstruck. Out of all the things America had done in the past, this was by far the most creative.

"You missed curfew, planted firecrackers in the man's lawn, and then shaved his cat? What the bloody hell were you thinking?" England fumed. "You were lucky he didn't call the authorities on you! He could've had you arrested! Did you ever think twice about the consequences that would come from—"

"It was worth it," America cut in roughly. "That cat almost clawed my hand off last time I was walking by Bennett's lawn. He's lucky I didn't slit its throat."

England's eyes grew darker. "Hold your tongue while I'm speaking if you can't keep quiet! You are grounded until further notice. You will never see sunlight again if you _ever_ do something like this again, do you understand me? I will keep you locked in this house for as long as you live if that's what it's going to take to keep you out of trouble! I was worried SICK! I thought you'd been _killed_! You were supposed to be home nearly three hours ago!"

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to worry you. I just—"

"You will not speak until you are told to do so. Am I clear? Oh, you are never going to see those ruddy friends of yours again as long as I'm around."

"That's not fair!" America exclaimed, temper rising. "You can't tell me what to do anymore! I'm not a baby! Bennett deserved what he got and you know it! He's been the most miserable neighbor in the history of the planet. His monster-cat keeps slashing through the flowers in our yard!"

"Firstly, I _can_ tell you what to do. I am your guardian and I know what is best for you. Secondly, if you're growing into such a mature adult as you claim, then why are you still pulling childish pranks on others and throwing temper tantrums every time you don't get your way?" England finished rhetorically.

The boy stood up from his place on the couch, still about a head and a half shorter than his guardian, considering he was only about eleven years old physically. He hadn't reached much of a serious growth spurt yet.

"It was just a joke! It's not like I killed the thing! Oh, but sorry, I forgot that you don't know how to have a little fun," America snarled, still frustrated that he was going to be held captive in this house for a while, with no friends to converse with. Heck, those kids weren't even his friends anymore. They ran like the wind when he'd been caught by Bennett.

"That's it, young man! You do not use that tone with me. Nose in the corner, now," England ordered, pointing to the corner by the stairs.

"What?" America gawked, cheeks flaming red in embarrassment. "You can't put me in the corner! I'm way too old for that!"

"You're rants are becoming irrational and childish. You will stand in the corner like a good lad for the next thirty minutes until you can act more respectably. A time out is just the perfect thing for you right now until I can figure out what to do with this new display of disobedience. I can't lecture you at this hour, you're too grouchy from the lack of sleep," England explained calmly. "Now, _you_ can either move to the corner voluntarily, or _I_ shall move you. It's your choice, but you will be standing in that corner regardless of whether or not you choose to be difficult."

America scowled lividly, stomping over to the corner and crossing his arms in silent fury. England sighed wearily, sipping on the cold tea he had abandoned over his worry for his colony's wellbeing. He drank the rest with a frown, sitting down in his armchair and picking up a good book to read for the next half hour. He knew that both he and his colony needed some time to cool off. It was much too late to start a heated argument and result to rash decision-making.

America took his time brood and think things through, determined to stay angry at England for as long as he lived. It wasn't fair that England was giving him such a harsh punishment. Overall, the prank hadn't been that bad. He hadn't hurt anyone, including the cat. He'd been sure not to cut him accidentally, though the cat had managed to sever America's hand a good number of times as revenge. At least now, he could guarantee that the cat wouldn't be harassing him next time he walked by that wretched house.

England just didn't understand that the little demon spawn had finally gotten what it had deserved. Personally, America disliked cats for the most part anyway. Dogs were much more loyal while cats were just plain vicious and stubborn.

But as time passed, America began to grow more and more sleepy, his legs hurting from standing in place for so long. His eyes drooped as he continued to face the wall, lethargy taking over. Suddenly, all his anger at Mr. Bennett, his cat, and England had dissipated into thin air. By the twenty-five minute mark, he was nearly nodding off, completely willing to just apologize for everything and move on with his life. Finally, time was up.

England stood up from his chair befittingly. He had promised thirty minutes of corner time and stuck to his word, punctually coming to turn America around from the wall he had been forced to face.

Drowsy eyes met England's, blinking slowly at the taller figure in front of them.

"M'sorry, England… Won't do it again… You were right…" America mumbled, stifling a wide yawn.

"Yes, yes, I know," England sighed exasperatedly. "'Sorry' is always your favorite word, isn't it? Hurry along, let's get you changed and in bed. Ultimately, I'm going to have to be the one to clean up this mess, but thank you for apologizing, nonetheless."

America's head dipped in affirmation before he followed England back to his bedroom and took a seat on the mattress, lazily tugging off his sweater.

"Let me help," England offered, reaching over to slide the itchy, woolen item off his head. He muddled through America's dresser as the boy took off his grass-stained t-shirt. The colony gratefully accepted the flannel nightshirt his brother proffered him, pulling it on hazily.

"You're becoming such a handful, my dear boy," England murmured as he pulled out a pair of pajama bottoms and tossed them over to America, who hastily switched into them and collapsed onto his pillows.

"Am not," America disagreed habitually, turning on his side and getting comfortable as England tucked him in.

"Yes, you are. Soon you're going to be a big, bad teenager, causing trouble all over the place for me. I think I'm getting too old for this kind of melodrama, lad," England complained, patting America's leg as a sign to get him to scoot over.

"I don't want to cause trouble," America grumbled. "It just sort of happens."

"Alas, trouble finds you," England gave an exhausted smile as he took a seat next to the child.

"Am I still grounded?"

England chuckled. "Yes, you are. Your puppy eyes aren't going to make me more lenient with you this time. You did something very foolish and reckless today, but I must admit that I've always hated that horrid cat as well."

America flashed his usual, cheeky grin.

"Do you promise not to cause any more trouble for me?" England asked half-heartedly as America's eyes began to close by themselves.

"I can't promise that," America stated seriously, but smiled nonetheless, mischief glinting in his eyes.

"Wrong answer," England replied with a smirk. "But don't worry; you can make up for it while you're helping me around the house tomorrow."

"Ugh, chores?" America mumbled into his pillow. "Do I have to do the dishes?"

"Yes."

"And sweep the floors?"

"Yes."

"And water the garden?"

"Yes."

"And play by the river?"

"Nice try."

"Aw, man," America pouted, shutting his eyes and clutching his pillow closer to his chest.

"Goodnight, love. I'll see you in the morning and then you're going to apologize to Mr. Bennett." England stood from the bed and made his way out of the room.

"Being a big, bad teenager won't be so bad if you're still going to be with me, England," America whispered after his retreating form.

England felt something flutter in his heart. "R-Right… Go to sleep, now…"

_Bring on the terrible teens.  
_


	5. Savor The Tea, Child

**Author's Note: Here is a fictitious account of one of my favorite moments in American history, though much help was taken from the very real account of George Hewes, AKA the real boatswain. **

**Warning: Things get a little angsty, though I promise there will be more fluff in future chapters.**

* * *

December 16, 1773:

Nightfall arrived with a flurry of excitement unlike any other. Adrenaline coursed through the blood of every man preparing to leave the safety of their homes and out into the bitter, unforgiving, wintery night. Nonetheless, stars blanketed the sky on that December night, shimmering in all their splendor at the events that were about to unfold. Winds whipped through the deserted, powder white, cobblestone streets as the shops closed and the civilians of Boston turned in for the evening.

Alfred F. Jones was not among these civilians.

Instead, he had joined a separate group of men in his Mohawk Indian costume, face now being painted with coal dust in preparation for the rebellion against the Crown. After all, one could not do something in the name of the Crown without appropriately cleaning and dressing themselves up like good "gentlemen" should. America smirked as the blacksmith aided him in smearing the rest of the coal dust onto his frigid, rosy cheeks, feasting on the irony of the situation with gusto. Rough and calloused fingers ran down the sides of his face, making America feel as though he were being touched by treason itself. When the blacksmith had deemed him ready to go, he pinched America's cheeks with his forefingers teasingly.

"You go out there and give 'em a run for their money, Al," he spoke huskily, letting out a weak string of coughs. "You'd be the spittin' image of an Indian—thanks to me—if it weren't for those eyes. 'Fraid there's nothin' I can do 'bout that though."

America grinned eagerly. His eyes really were his most prominent features and there wasn't much of a way to keep them incognito with the rest of his body—blame those beautiful, American skies—so he'd just have to hope that it would be too dark for anyone to notice. Besides, the whole costume was more for the purpose of being symbolic rather than actually being an effective concealment.

"Thanks for everything, Jim," America praised wholeheartedly. "I really owe you."

"Don't you worry 'bout that," the blacksmith chuckled heartily. "You'll have paid me back when I see the faces of those lobsterbacks in the mornin'. Take care, Al."

America nodded stiffly, bidding the blacksmith and his toasty fireplace farewell as he stepped into the frosty twilight awaiting his arrival.

He lifted up his tomahawk (small hatchet) and made his way to Griffin's wharf, where the ships that contained the tea proudly stood on the surface of his clear waters. He was shortly greeted by other Bostonian men who were dressed in a similar fashion, faces gleaming with a kind of courage America had not seen in a very long time.

England had once held that same foolish, yet fearless expression accompanied by a crooked, carefree smile that made him seem as though he were the sole ruler of the earth during his voyages across the Atlantic and back.

America took in a deep breath of bone chilling air, holding it in his lungs for as long as he dared. This wasn't about England. This was finally about America and _his _people. He had to give his people what they wanted, and if this was what it was going to take, then so be it.

The brave Bostonians marched toward their destination, never taking a single, hesitant footstep. They arrived at the wharf briskly, where three men acknowledged them with an air of authority. They were the ones who had been chosen to direct the others in the mission. Success would depend on their control of the situation, and how well they would be able to instruct their men.

America was quickly assigned to a division whose commander went by the name of Leonard Pitt. He wasn't sure who the other two men had been, but it hadn't seemed like a very important detail at the time, considering that he was much more preoccupied with ensuring that his role in the mission was completed according to the plan.

The commanders swiftly ordered that they all board the ships at the same time, which was unquestionably obeyed by the rebels who were loyal to their cause. They climbed aboard the ships with an air of victory, feeling as though they were standing on top of the world as their feet hit the wooden planks on deck. This was it; the terrifying British Empire was about to be made into a bunch of fools for ignoring their colony. Bostonians would finally get their sweet revenge without the need of expert military generals, or trained soldiers. They were just ordinary civilians, fighting for what they believed to be just, and that made the entire event that much more symbolic and fulfilling than any practiced army would ever have been able to comprehend or appreciate.

"Hey, kid! You—the blue eyed boy—come here for a second," Pitt's voice echoed, piercing through America's ears.

America spun around on his heels in alarm, wondering why he had been singled out of the group. He made his way over to Leonard Pitt with trembling hands, hoping he had not done something wrong so soon, or that he would be deduced as too young to participate with the other rebels.

After all, being called a "kid" had always registered in America's mind as an extremely condescending term that made him feel feeble and unimportant in every aspect of the word.

Pitt gazed intently into his eyes for a minute as though he could see the entire universe revolving in the pools of his irises. Then, he gave a lopsided smile, eyes twinkling warmly in return.

"You're the boatswain from now on. I want you to go to the captain and demand the keys to the hatches as well as a dozen candles. Can you do that?"

America's eyes widened. This was one job he hadn't been expecting to receive, but Pitt had uttered it like a casual, small favor without any concern for the danger that his young self might have to put himself up to in order to execute the order.

"R-Right… I mean, yes. Yes, sir. I'll do as you say," America replied skittishly, eyes roaming around the ship at the other men filing onto the deck.

Pitt grinned, yellow teeth flashing in the moonlight. "I'm counting on you, kid."

There it was again, that haughty, scornful word that kept sneering at him from all angles. He would prove that he could do this, and he _wouldn't_ fail. He would do this for the people of Boston and for all other Americans, _his _Americans.

He raced down the ship and to the captain's quarters, accustomed to the design of British ships after having traveled on many during England's pirate days when he was too young to be left home alone. Wooden floorboards creaked under his feet as he rushed down the halls, energy pulsing through his heart as all doubtful thoughts flew from his mind. He could do this. He was going to do this.

Finally, the door to the captain's headquarters came into view. With an air of reckless courage that could only be caused by the rush of adrenaline, America barged through the obstacle, slamming it open with a satisfying smack.

"Give me the keys to the hatches," he roared without preamble. The room was pitch-black, but the frantic rustling of papers had made a racket that could not be concealed. Someone, presumably the captain, jumped to his feet and rushed to the doorway, clutching the front of America's Mohawk costume before the boy could comprehend what was going on.

"What's a filthy rebel like you doing prowling one of my ships? What gives you the right to speak to me in such an atrocious manner?" a familiar voice hissed, hot breath hitting the front of America's neck.

He knew that voice. He would've known that voice anywhere, no matter how ravaged it had been by seething fury.

It was Arthur Kirkland.

England's hands were the ones that were holding him a foot above the ground and the realization hit America like a ton of bricks.

What was he doing on _this_ particular ship out of all others? Why had America not known that his brother had returned from Europe? Had he come to snuff out the sparks of revolution after learning about all the turmoil that had taken place? Had he suspected this revolt from the very beginning? Did he know that the culprit hanging from the end of his arm was his very own brother?

Now, he understood why Leonard Pitt had singled him out. The man was well aware of America's relationship with Arthur, and perhaps the commander had found it amusing to push the captain's buttons, hoping all hell would break loose at such an obvious, familial betrayal. Besides, this wouldn't be the first time Alfred had been on treachery's pedestal. Nearly all personal ties between the two had been damaged beyond repair after the Boston Massacre. Alfred had refused to allow Arthur back home, which explained why no one saw it fit to inform him that his brother had arrived in Boston Harbor.

America tried not to panic. There was still a chance that England had no idea of his true identity. It was so dark, and everything had happened so quickly that there was no way he had been discovered so soon. He debated altering his voice to keep his cover when a candle was suddenly lit by England's free hand, illuminating the room in a dim light.

America's heart rose to his throat while his stomach did cartwheels. He couldn't speak, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even think. The mission had flown out the window. He forced himself to meet England's cold gaze.

And instantaneously, England dropped him to the ground, his hand now limp from astonishment. As suspected initially, America's Mohawk disguise had done nothing to hide the distinct, blue eyes that were etched into his older brother's retina.

"America?" he gawked, taking a few steps back before stumbling into a bookshelf.

America didn't know how to reply. He could do nothing, but just stand there, horrified that his brother was on _this_ ship out of all the others.

"What are you doing here? You should be home! What the bloody hell were you thinking? Why are you traipsing about as a rebel and disguising yourself in some horrible, Indian rags? Have you gone mental?" England scolded, glaring down at the teen standing before him.

"I'm not a child anymore, England. You can't just send me off to bed for being disobedient and then expect that I'll do nothing to help fill my people's desires. Their anger has become my anger, and if they knew who I really was, they'd be depending on me to stand together with them," America tried to explain. He didn't regret anything, yet. He took two, brave steps forward, resting his tomahawk on the mahogany desk beside him. England's rage had been inevitable from the start.

"You're being an idiot, America. Go home, _now_. What is it your friends are planning to do to these cargo ships?" England muttered, eyes scanning the hatchet in his brother's hands.

"I need the keys to the hatches and your candles," America repeated firmly, ignoring England's prying questions.

"What makes you think I'll ever do that?" England scoffed, smirking arrogantly. "You're just a child; an insolent child is long overdue for a severe punishment. You'll have to be cleverer than that to—"

America wasn't sure what had caused the impulse, but before he could second guess himself, he had knocked over the glass bottle of lighter oil on the desk to the floor and snatched the discarded box of matches England had used previously to light the candle.

"I'll burn down this ship," he threatened, striking a single match and holding it over the spilt oil on the ground. "Wood burns nicely, especially the _American_ wood this ship is made of."

"You wouldn't _dare_," England snarled, taking a step forward.

"Try me," America challenged heatedly, acting much more courageously than he felt.

"What do you need the keys for?" England asked calmly, eyes roving down to his colony's trembling hands.

"Why does it matter? I just need them," America retorted rebelliously as the flames consumed half of the match that was balancing between his thumb and index finger. "Time is running out, old man."

England leered at his colony, affronted, but grabbed a ring of keys from the pocket of his expensive, crimson coat, and lugged out a box of spare candles from under the desk, holding the items in his hands.

"You can have them under one condition," England negotiated. He'd certainly learned a few, manipulative tactics after being a pirate for so many years. His wit had helped him chase off that Spaniard's conquistador gang many a time.

"What is it? Hurry up," America spoke hurriedly; the flame was going to lick his fingers in just a few more seconds.

"You are to do no damage to the ship or its rigging. Swear to it and you may do as you wish without intervention. If you fail to meet this condition, then you _will_ face consequences," England offered, eyebrows furrowing in concentration.

"Fine, you have my word," America promised, blowing out the match and letting it fall to the ship's floor.

England scrutinized the teen for a moment longer before passing over the articles just as promised, wondering what tricks the young boy had under his sleeves. He could hear the commotion above his quarters, and had spotted other men boarding the two ships opposite the center one that he and America were now occupying.

America rushed out of England's cabin, not even considering what the nation might do to him as a punishment after all of this was over. He honestly didn't care. He had bigger things to worry about than being grounded. Still, he couldn't help but wonder why England had conceded to giving him the keys. Surely, he could have found a way to stop America if he'd really wanted to. Was he just going to let his cargo be destroyed?

Panting, America made his way back to the deck of the ship, dropping the box of candles at Pitt's feet and holding out the keys to him.

Pitt's eyebrows rose to the top of his head disbelievingly. "That was awfully quick."

America glared at the commander. "Guess I'm not as incompetent as you thought I was.'

Pitt smiled smoothly before turning to the rest of the men on the ship. "Alright, men, open the hatches, take out all the chests of tea, and throw them overboard!"

Minutes passed before a couple of men cheered and howled as they cut and split the chests of tea open with their tomahawks. Splashes crashed through the night's once peaceful atmosphere as all three ships erupted with sounds of splintering wood. America joined in on the effort, trying to fully expose the tea inside the chests before dumping it into the water. It was a much longer process than previously thought, considering that there was a total of three hundred and forty-two tea chests on board the three cargo ships.

Minutes shifted into hours as sweat poured down the backs of the Sons of Liberty, hefting crate after crate into the water relentlessly. British armed ships soon surrounded the area, but just as England had promised to America, there was no attempt made to resist them. It all seemed very surreal and time seemed to slow down as America made his way off of the ship, feeling the eyes of the redcoats boring holes into the back of his soot covered head. It was as though dozens of Arthur Kirklands were glaring at him accusingly all at the same time.

The fellow Bostonian men on the ship did not speak to one another as they quietly made their way to their houses. A mutual bond had seemed to form between each individual on the ship. All of them knew that they had done this at their own risk and might have to face the consequences of the deliberate civil disobedience. Still, there seemed to be a cloud of triumph showering over Boston, and everyone relished in the silent darkness.

America stuffed his hands into his pockets, fingering the single teabag that he had looted from one of the crates. He made a pact with himself that this would contribute to the final cup of tea he would drink for the rest of his lifetime. This tarnished, stolen teabag would contribute to the last droplets that would ever touch his tongue and he would enjoy its evil roots.

There was really no point in turning in for the night anymore, considering dawn was beginning to roll into the skyline. America took an opportunity to look back at Boston Harbor, blinking with an involuntary smile on his face at the floating crates of tea on the water.

Civilians were just beginning to file into the streets with stupefied eyes as they met the same sight as America. Sleep tugged at his heavy lids as he continued trudging down the road back home, but he was promptly stopped by the sound of more destruction taking place in the distance.

He spun back around toward the harbor once more, awe filling his eyes as Bostonians rushed into small boats, traveling out into the water before beating the floating chests with their oars and paddles, cheering with excitement as the tealeaves were damaged beyond repair. It was clear to America that not a single tea bag would be able to be salvaged from the event apart from the bag residing in his pocket.

And it was in that moment that the true revolution had begun inside of America's heart. He watched his people with a swelling sense of pride. They had done it. They had won this battle, and if certain things didn't change very quickly, there would be more battles to come.

America finally returned home, shutting the door quietly behind him, only to come face-to-face with England.

"Had your fun?" he sneered, eyes flashing with contempt.

"Yeah, thanks for asking," America retorted sarcastically, shoving past his brother to make his way upstairs. However, he didn't make it past the first step before England was holding him up by the collar of his shirt again. It hadn't mattered that America had become the taller of the two, England was still as strong (if not stronger) then his brother was, grip unwavering like the solidity of his empire.

"Mark my words, you and the rest of Boston are going to pay for every last bit of that tea," England spoke through clenched teeth, but it didn't intimidate America in the least. His glares and biting remarks had lost their effect on the younger man.

"Only if you promise to drink a bit of water from the harbor and tell me if it tastes like tea. I'd let it sit for a few more hours before deciding to do that though; it might make the aftertaste stronger," America antagonized, wriggling in England's clutches while trying to rip the man's hands off of his shirt.

"You impudent, little brat! Here I am, managing to repeal nearly all the taxes on your imported products, and you still have the nerve to defy me when you should be thanking me," England growled.

"I guess you still don't understand. Money isn't the problem here. It's the civilians' revelation that you think you can do anything and control anyone without giving a damn about offering them representation in Parliament," America explained for what felt like the millionth time.

"I can do whatever I want. It's my empire and you are nothing, but property!" England drawled out scathingly, though he could feel his heart tighten at the spoken words.

America's eyes burned with hatred at the man standing before him; the same man he had once treated as his hero. "This is just like the conversation we had at the Boston Massacre."

England's eyes seemed to soften considerably, heart still aching from that horrible, unjust day. "You know I had nothing to do with that. My men had strict orders not to fire at the people."

"But they did anyway, didn't they? They shot at unarmed, innocent civilians! One of the strongest militaries in the world against a group of bakers, sailors and merchants! That hardly seemed fair to me. Those five men died because of you and your stupid, terrorizing tactics," America blamed.

"Let's not go through this again. You're tired after the ridiculous scene you've caused. I understand times are difficult, and you're becoming a rebellious teenager, but that is no excuse for your rash actions. You must learn to let go of certain things that happen to be beyond your control. Go up to bed and rest," England ordered, tone becoming calmer as he composed himself. He released his grip on the colony and set him back down.

"I'M NOT A CHILD!" America bellowed, shaking with boiling frustration. "I can't believe you! You can't stop seeing me as your conquered infant. This house is a prison if nothing else! I can't believe you still have the nerve to walk into this house after the Boston Massacre. I told you not to visit anymore. Don't show up at all and see if I care. I sure as hell won't be crying at your departure."

England stood rigidly, impassive as he let America blow off steam. "I just want what's best for you."

Suddenly, America wasn't tired in the least. If anything, he was burning with excess energy.

"Really? I doubt that. Get out, England," he suddenly demanded, blue eyes becoming stone cold.

"I-I beg your pardon? You can't kick me out, I—"

America swept forward, shoving England square in the chest. "Get out. Go back to Europe and bathe in your wealth. I told you to leave last time and that still stands. I don't want you back here. I don't need you living with me anymore and we both know it, so get out."

England's eyes glittered strangely, throat running dry. "D-Don't do this. You're not thinking straight."

"Go back to Europe and 'fix this mess', or this won't be the end of the rebellion, no matter how many redcoats you send into the city. We aren't going to back down and we _will_ take up arms against you if we have to. So, get out, now."

England's eyes became frantic. For the first time, he'd realized that his brother hated him with a passion too deep to mend. He had failed as an older brother, and that felt by far worse than having failed as an empire.

Yet, he complied with America's request. He didn't know if he'd be able to quench the flames of this rebellion. He didn't know if he was going to be able to end this and live peacefully with his brother again, but he knew it would do no good to stick around. He took a final look at his younger brother, hoping that this wouldn't be the last time he'd be able to stand in this house with him. He swallowed the lump in his throat and decided against speaking, feeling as though he was going to break if he did. He nodded numbly and stepped outside, planning to head for Boston Harbor once more to see if he could do anything to help his men.

"Goodbye, America," he said in a strained whisper. He met America's eyes once more, feeling as though he were drowning in those pools of blue. The ground may have swallowed him whole at that very moment. Rejection had replaced the tenderness inscribed in those eyes.

America sighed, shutting his eyes and turning his head toward the ground with disappointment in a way that made England feel as though he was the hotheaded colony. "Bye, England."

And so, England took a shaky breath, lowered his head and disappeared down the cobblestone path.

* * *

America stepped into the kitchen—_his_ kitchen—and put the kettle on, mulling over everything that had just happened with a small frown. He didn't know if he should be hurt at the loss of his brother or enlivened at the fact that he would become a main component in the rebellion from this point on.

He poured himself his final cup of tea with a sluggish air, refusing to add any sugar or honey to the substance. He slumped into the nearest chair and sipped it greedily, recoiling his tongue at how bitter the liquid seemed after everything that had happened. It was no longer relaxing or reassuring. It scalded his tongue and stained his teeth, making its presence known within his body. He felt sick, sticky and disgusting as the hot tea ran down his throat.

And before he could stop himself, he doubled over and madly groped for the wastebasket, vomiting up the foul beverage into it with a strangled whimper. When he was done, he grabbed his mug and opened the window, overturning the rest of the tea into the grass. Finally, he sent the cup hurtling across the room, watching as it crashed into the wall and cracked into infinitesimal pieces.

And he didn't know why, but his knees buckled and sent him tumbling to the ground, skin hitting cold tiles as he tried to recollect himself. Tears streamed from his eyes like never before as everything in the room came to a screeching halt around him, sobs echoing throughout the household. The building had never been so cold and empty. The fire in the fireplace was extinguished. Shattered glass coated the ground from the broken cup, and the stench of vomit wafted through the room from the tea America's stomach just couldn't handle.

And there was no England, no matter how hard he looked and how long he waited for some consoling words and passionate apologies.

Everything was just damn empty.


	6. Make Your Decisions With Care

**Author's Note: After a fair amount of research on the various people that participated in the Battle of Lexington and Concord, this chapter is finally complete. To my disappointment, it turns out Paul Revere didn't actually shout,"The British are coming!" because of the Loyalists in town. Bummer. xD **

**Another Fun Fact: This chapter was edited to "Rubik's Cube" by Athlete on a loop to help me get the proper, atmospheric feel. **

* * *

Concord, Massachusetts. Spring 1775: 

It really wasn't fair, how abandoned and alone he had felt at the time; every memory of laughter and a million smiles sneaking its way into his mind and twisting his nerves, haunting his marred soul with undeniable guilt. Soon, laughs and smiles were replaced with heated arguments and scornful words that had been meant to be empty, but each biting remark disguised itself well.

He tried to make sense of it all; tried to reassure himself that he had made all the right decisions up until this point. Yet, he felt a sinking sense of despair slice through his stomach at the prospect that, perhaps, he had been the one at fault all along. Perhaps, he'd given into treason's barren promises and temptations without realizing it. Perhaps, he should just beg for forgiveness and allow himself back into his brother's welcoming arms once more.

Yet, he knew those arms wouldn't contain the same dependence and strength that they'd once had. Steady and controlled embraces had succumbed to frantic decision-making and short temperedness. Both brothers had undergone changes, and the younger of the two wondered if his older sibling would ever treat him the same way again. All reassurance had been set aside, quickly replaced with fragile emotions like a thin layer of glass over lava. One crack in the structure and the fire would consume all the bridges that had been holding them for so long. They were just so breakable.

"Alright, boys, who wants the first shot?" a gruff voice rang through the sage slope where a handful of men were perched with bright sunshine warming their skittish limbs.

Isaac Davis paced back and forth across the row of civilians standing before him, scrutinizing each as they loaded their weapons. He stopped in front of one of the younger men, letting out a soothing chuckle to ease the tension in the air as a blond mop of hair rose to meet his eyes.

"Hey, Al, cleaning that gun barrel might just save your life," Davis lightly chided the teen's poor treatment of his bayonet, examining the unfocused blue eyes that were peering at him with mild interest. America simply nodded in return, lowering his eyes once more.

"Hmm, how about you go first, eh? Let's see where you're at, lad," Davis suggested, urging the sixteen year old to stand up and approach the wooden crate in the middle of the hill. On the crate, there stood an empty, glass bottle of what appeared to have once been beer.

America conceded soundlessly, taking his position a few yards away from the target and squaring his shoulders while taking in a deep breath. He could practically feel England's arms on top of his, guiding his fingers into position like he had when he had first taught America to shoot. They had practiced hunting many times before; England always being by America's side and offering him small tips to consider for future improvement.

America lifted his gun and took a few moments to aim before firing, smoke emanating from the tip of his gun in luscious puffs. Following the sounds of the gunshot, the shriek of breaking glass fleeted through the empty hillside. The entire bottle exploded as the bullet made contact with its center, sending a cluster of dust-like shrapnel into the surrounding grass.

A few spectators from the rest of the group of volunteer soldiers burst into whoops and cheers, springing up from their seated positions on adjacent boulders to pat America on the shoulder.

Davis grinned wholeheartedly, patting the top of America's back. "Boy, you're going to give those redcoats a scare."

_Of course; After all, he'd been taught by the best. _

America allowed himself just a twitch of the lips, but the enthusiasm in his eyes was quickly doused after having succeeded. He wouldn't allow himself to take pleasure in these training sessions. He would never be proud of preparing to fight his sovereign nation. Hopefully, this entire war could still be avoided, but even the American's usual, ruthless optimism was being trampled on.

However, he wanted to fight with his people should they decide to take up arms against the British. He was going to join the militia as one of the minutemen, and he'd be as persevering as the rest of the farmers, storekeepers, and blacksmiths encircling him, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

With a barely audible sigh, America cleaned the barrel of his gun wordlessly as a carpenter took up his musket and prepared to shoot at the next bottle. America supposed it was his duty to take good care of his weapons, considering that they had been paid for by the civilians themselves. He owed them that much.

He could only hope that this war wouldn't be too bloody, and he would've prayed to any deity that was willing to answer his pleas for help.

But hope was neither a tangible nor solely reliable shield at the moment. Likewise, the spirits seemed to be putting his prayers off on hold.

It seemed like he was on his own, something he'd never had to experience in combat before.

Yet, despite his better judgment, he wished England was here, telling him he was never _truly_ alone.

* * *

April 19, 1775:

"_Arrest the rebel leaders and seize their weapons." _

These were the orders Arthur Kirkland gave his British soldiers not long before Paul Revere took off on his "Midnight Ride", racing his way down the coast to Lexington and Concord to warn the militia of the marching redcoats. He galloped through the dimly lit roads of the town, hands firmly clutching the reigns of his horse. Determined to keep his intentions secret from the Loyalists, he shouted, "The Regulars are coming out!" to the Patriot civilians, rushing forward with other riders to spread the message.

Thus, America shortly woke with a start, being shaken awake by a frantic, fellow member of the Lexington militia who quickly explained the situation without missing a beat. As one of the most skilled soldiers in the small bunch, America had been allowed certain special privileges that titled him a leader within the group. He had also become well known among other civilians in the surrounding towns and colonies, which was slightly unnerving, considering that the British had finally labeled him as a noted "rebel leader". He'd already played a major role in both the militias at Lexington and Concord.

"I'm coming. Go with the others and get ready," the teen assured, scrambling to gather his supplies and rushing outside to see what all the commotion was about for his own eyes. He pulled on his blue, uniform jacket and hastily tagged down John Parker, the commander of the militia at Lexington. Ironically enough, he had previously supported the British, but his allegiances had been changed irreversibly.

"Are these just rumors, or are the British really making their way down here as we speak?" America quickly interrogated, slightly breathless.

"As real as it gets," Parker replied grimly. "Paul Revere made it here in record time, but we're just hearing that he has been stopped at Lincoln before being able to reach Concord by a roadblock caused by the British."

"We need to warn them. I can go there and make it back before the British even get here. Just get me a—"

"Relax," Parker interjected. "Revere's not the only one out there tonight. I'm sure someone managed to scrape past the roadblock by now. The news is spreading like wildfire. You, on the other hand, should be preparing for battle, or have your duties as a soldier in this militia completely slipped your mind?"

"No, sir. I'll meet you out on the battlefield," America barked back rather forcefully, though he managed a rebellious smirk at the end of his statement. "But what will happen to Paul Revere?"

"Believe me when I say that he knows the consequences of treason more than all of us put together. Crafty men live for such tight situations. He shall be fine. Now, go!" Parker ordered, watching America run off into the eerie night.

Surely enough, by five o'clock in the morning, sixty militia men stood in the open field just outside of Lexington, fearlessly facing hundreds of experienced, British soldiers despite being greatly outnumbered. Lexington's militia consisted of every day, average citizens who had been training for just a few months prior to this encounter. Meanwhile, the British army had fought on no less than five continents in the past twenty years, consuming everything that dared to stand in their path and defy them.

America shut his eyes and pictured England, bushy eyebrows and all as he faced his ferocious military, wondering whether the man was still in Europe or whether he'd joined the battle in putting out the rebellion.

With an overwhelming feeling of disheartenment, he realized he was just a young boy among an impoverished militia, barely having taken a part in any serious battle such as this. He'd never felt such a gaping hole in his heart as he had standing there in the spring grass, digging the tips of his shoes into the ground to vainly reassure himself.

Spring was a time for new life and rebirth, not warfare.

He desperately fought the lump in his throat, chest aching painfully as seconds passed between the two groups of men, waiting to see who would shoot the first shot.

John Parker stood at the very front of their militia with America right behind him. Parker turned sideways and caught a glimpse of the jittery men supporting his side, giving them a soft, steady smile. "Do not fire unless being fired upon, but if you mean to have war, let it begin _here_," he proclaimed steadfastly.

This was it. This was the crucial point where either a war would begin, or disintegrate before being fully ignited. For many of the men that stood beside America, the moment would give the rest of their lives purpose and pride; pride that they hadn't submitted to one of the greatest empires in the world, fully knowing that they might've been breathing their final breaths.

And then, in a single, ear shattering heartbeat, America heard the first shot being fired.

The way in which the sharp sound had torn through the atmosphere would forever be burned into his mind. He'd had no idea who had fired the first shot. In fact, he'd never know for sure, but he knew, at the time, that it was the sound heard around the world.

The American Revolution had officially begun.

Chaos ensued as both militaries began firing their muskets at the lines of soldiers on either side of the field. Within minutes, eight of the sixty men in the militia were killed and two were wounded.

America watched in horror as his friends fell, desperately trying to find a way to help them as John Parker urged them to stand their ground. However, it soon became apparent that refusing to retreat would've been a suicide mission, seeing as the British had fired up to four times the rate of the militia. America fell back and managed to convince everyone to do the same, retreating from the wrath of the redcoats.

America's heart pounded in his throat while sweat rolled down the side of his face. He stifled a whimper at the sight of a fellow soldier lying limply at his feet.

"Come along," Parker dragged him back into the woods as America took in the scene. It was worse than when he'd witnessed the death of five men at the Boston Massacre, far worse.

"Their headed for Concord next. I know it. They aren't here to play around, or loiter. They're going to keep going," America gasped, wrenching himself from Parker's grasp on his upper arm.

"Yes, the militia there can handle them. They have larger numbers," Parker consoled. "We must get this group to safety."

"Eight dead… Eight died," America repeated helplessly, eyes glittering strangely as his own words sunk into his brain.

"Yes, count your lucky stars it wasn't more," Parker replied throatily, releasing his hold on America's arm.

"I have to go to Concord. Isaac Davis is there. He trained me. He'll want me to be there," America suddenly realized, turning back with the kick of a heel.

"Don't! You'll be killed!" Parker exclaimed after him, unsure of what to do. "Don't be rash!"

America simply shook his head in return, breaking off into a desperate sprint. "If the British can march to Concord, I can do the same!"

Parker sighed wearily, "That kid just doesn't know when to give up, does he?"

With a steady pace, America got to Concord thirty minutes before the British arrived at nine in the morning. His sleep deprived body dragged him along the hike to the familiar town, urging him that he was needed. He was a leader. He would help the men he'd trained with for months in the Concord militia. Tracking down the commander took more time than he'd initially expected, but he soon found him in the woodlands surrounding the perimeter of Concord with his minutemen, poised for battle with over one thousand Patriots at his side. James Barrett commanded them, but he paid him no mind as he spotted a familiar face nearby.

"Davis! DAVIS!" America bellowed as he ran through the thicket of trees, legs nearly giving out at the long trek they had made as of recently.

"Jones?" Isaac Davis grinned disbelievingly, embracing the teen warmly. "How's my star pupil doing? I thought you were aiding the surrounding militias."

America managed a smile albeit painfully. "You look better prepared than the group at Lexington. The battle barely lasted what felt like a few minutes. We had to retreat. There was no chance for us. I'm so happy to see that you've been notified of the attack. I was worried. What's taking those lobsterbacks so long to get here, anyway?"

Davis snickered. "It's funny that you ask that. Their raiding the town as we speak, searching for weapons that they won't find. Loyalists have been telling them of our not-so-secret weapon storages, but we moved them to a safer location weeks ago. They won't get their hands on a single gun; must be driving them mad at this very moment as they give us extra time to prepare."

America smiled genuinely for the first time in months. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you."

"Same here, lad. Made your way here from Lexington just in front of the soldiers, huh? You're itching for quite a fight, aren't you?" Davis returned the enthusiasm, squeezing America's shoulder reassuringly.

At this, James Barrett regarded America coolly. "Now, soldier, get into position if you plan to fight, or I'll be forced to send you back to town for your own safety."

America wielded his gun firmly. "Over my dead body," he smirked, forcing himself not to ponder too long over the horrible defeat at Lexington. There was power in numbers, and the thousand men behind him were going to be a force to be reckoned with.

The British didn't take too long to decide that their search was being wasteful of precious time. They met up with the rebels shortly after and the battle ensued with a much more favorable outcome for the Patriots than before. In fact, they shadowed the redcoats retreat, killing one third of their men by the time the chase was over. The redcoats' march back to Boston had resulted in seventy-three men killed, a hundred and seventy-three men wounded, and twenty six men missing.

However, celebration had not washed over America, seeing as his beloved trainer and friend had taken a bullet to the heart, dying instantly upon impact.

After their undeniable success in the fight, America allowed himself to plummet to the ground with fatigue as he finally began to feel raw emotions rather than the numbing sensations that had taken over his form previously.

The other men had scattered throughout the remainder of the woods, though some had already begun returning back to town with a deep sense of pride and victory.

Yet, America just sat there amongst the first, blooming flowers of the season, cradling the body of Isaac Davis as he wept into the man's crimson-stained chest.

"We did it. We proved we could do it," America hummed to him gently. "You were amazing. You trained everyone so well. You were ready."

But his reflection was cut short as the shadow of a man casted over him, boots crunching against a demolished patch of grass.

"There is a reason as to why I tried to keep your eyes away from war," a gravelly voice regarded him from behind.

America stiffened, conflicting feelings of both relief and anxiety engulfing him. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Cleaning up your messes, as per usual," the man droned teasingly, dropping his gun on the grass.

America lowered Davis' body back to solid ground and stood up, but refused to turn back to face his visitor.

"What's wrong, Alfred? Can't handle an ounce of bloodshed? Remember, you caused this. You provoked this war by becoming a rebel leader."

"Shut up," America growled, "Get out of here, Arthur, and take your little clean-up crew with you."

"We could end this, Alfred. You could keep the lives of more of your precious friends protected," England compromised, stepping forward and setting a hand on America's shoulder while gazing down at Davis' body. "Poor, lad. Such a determined soul as well."

"Don't even speak of him, you liar! You won't bribe me into going back going home with you, if that's what you wanted," America spat, spinning around to finally face the man he'd been trying so fervently to forget.

England clicked his tongue in the same disapproving manner America had heard so many times in the past, making him seem like just a little, troublesome colony. Green eyes scalded the blue. "My, my, my, Alfred. We _still _haven't learned to control that temper, have we?"

America shrugged England's hand off of his shoulder and picked up Davis' body, planning to head back into town without instigating anymore fighting. He'd battled enough for one day.

"This isn't over, Arthur. You lost a third of your party today to a 'ragtag militia' as you so kindly put. I won't fight you today, but we'll see each other again. Goodbye, _brother_," America spoke condescendingly, treading his way through the woods with a new air of determination. Davis' death would not be in vain; he'd make sure of it.

"I'm sorry, _America." _The older man trailed after him. "Truly, I am. This was exactly what I was trying to prevent. I never wanted it to come to this, but it's my duty to my empire to fight this war; for I will not relinquish my colonies lightly, whether those close to me stand before me or not," England spoke solemnly.

Skeptically, the teen nodded detachedly. Duties and work had always been a greater priority to England than his younger brother. He'd made that apparent after abandoning him for months—sometimes years—on end.

And America knew that this was just the beginning as he felt his bond with England snap in half. He shut his eyes slowly, craving the forgiveness of his brother while wishing this had all unfolded more peacefully. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into England's arms and have him whisper consoling words to him, but he had a nation to represent. Perhaps, someday in the future, they'd be able to mend their bond to its original form.

_'Like proper gentlemen' America mused. 'We can set the past behind us.'_

"I… I'll see you on the battlefield, Britain."


	7. Set Yourself Free

**Author's Note: There will be more fluff in the next chapter; I promise. :D This is pretty much the final bit of angst that's going to be in this story. Enjoy!**

* * *

Destruction reigned in the barren landscape, crying skies looking down upon them and refusing to take sides in this perpetual war and bloodshed.

This was the result of war.

"All I want is my freedom. I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me, _independent_!" an angry voice roared, sending shivers down the spines of every man in proximity.

It was one of those moments. One of those moments where everything in the world seemed to be immobile, and everything, inanimate and animate, hung in the stillness of the atmosphere. It was a moment where time did not exist, hatred was not known, anger could not burn, and vengeance could not thrive. And in that moment, with just the two men staring at each other face to face, they both knew that this was the moment they had been foreseeing all this time. Yet, neither was ready to say goodbye. Neither was ready to let the other know of the pain swelling in their heart. Neither knew how the future would look for them, and whether or not they'd want to be a part of that future.

England turned his head up to the dark, cumulonimbus clouds, water sliding down his face and into his eyes, thoroughly drenching him. Rain again. There seemed to be so much more of it recently. It tapped against the grass rhythmically, its fragile drops splattering onto the dirt. It rolled down the streets and emptied itself out into the sewage drains. It covered each window like a blanket and cleansed everything within reach. After all, that's what rain was supposed to do, cleanse; make things pure again. That's why babies were baptized from a young age; to rid them of the impurities that had been passed down onto them through their ancestors.

Acting before his thoughts could catch up with him, England rushed forward on heavy legs, boots hooking into mud as he staggered. He thrust the barrel of his musket forward, barely missing America's face as the younger man turned his own musket horizontally as a shield, trying to fend off the growing strength of England's force against him. The gun was knocked from America's hands in a matter of seconds, gliding through the air before landing on the grass quite some distance away.

The elder of the two raised the barrel of his gun at his former colony's forehead, sparking with some overwhelming, yet indescribable sense of fury. Yet, it died as quickly as it had flared up once he saw the withdrawn stupor his younger brother had entered, disbelievingly staring down the barrel of the gun set intently before his figure.

"I won't allow it! You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?" England had shouted furiously, pressing the gun against the skin of his brother's forehead. America took his turn to be confused, unsure of whether or not his brother was referring to himself.

England on the other hand, wished this moment could be cleansed away; lost deep in the abyss of the ocean after pouring out into the riverbed. He looked into his brother's bewildered face. How could he have even thought of taking up arms against him?

Unsurprisingly, he was the first to speak.

"There's no way I can shoot you… I can't," he had croaked helplessly, feeling suffocated by his own words. He lowered his musket, eyes sparkling with tears he hadn't known he'd been capable of forming. His knees chose to buckle beneath him out of their own selfish will, sending him crashing to the ground mercilessly. He hit the dusty path, eyes burning as he swallowed desperately against the lump forming at the back of his throat.

"Damn it," he sputtered, scrubbing at his green eyes fervently, soggy hair sticking to his forehead. He didn't know what to do; didn't know how to even speak anymore. Somehow, he gasped out a single word, though it sounded choked and strangled as his tongue formed the intonation, "Why?"

It was a simple question. One of the simplest he could get himself to form at the time, but it struck America right in the heart, causing him to flinch from his cathartic stupor, blue eyes turning to face his brother's with a sort of solemn reverence.

"You know why," he rasped without a single hint of contempt in his voice, only nostalgic melancholy filled his tone as he found the green gaze regarding him. He frowned down upon England, all fear dissolved from his features. Those beautiful blue eyes were filled with pain, brows set sympathetically.

England took in a deep puff of air, breath hitching as he tried to quiet the sobs that were working their way into his lungs. He hung his head in shame and slumped forward as the onslaught of water continued to pound down on his back, wondering how long he'd be sitting there, momentarily paraplegic.

Then, in a strained unison, both men whispered the same two words into the air simultaneously.

"I'm sorry."

The words lingered in the night's grasp for a bit, trying to find their place in the horrible mess.

England sat on his heels, eyes shining with grief as he met America's steady gaze. He wished they were at home, huddled by the fireplace while eating scones that would have undoubtedly been burned at the bottom. He wanted to smile at the thought, but couldn't bring himself to do it, unable to find any source of soothing pleasure in his mind.

As a final plea, he kicked his gun as far away from his body as he could and forced his throat to work properly before saying, "Please, America… Alfred… Come home."

America glowered in a way that England absolutely despised, his face contorting in a way that made him look far more mature than he had any right to be.

"I won't," he murmured softly, looming over his elder brother's position on the ground.

Icy pelts of water stung their shoulders as they shared their final conversation of the war. They didn't even need to talk to convey the emotions that hung limply in the air.

An emptiness grew inside the cavity of England's chest; a hole that would remain with him for years to come.

But he couldn't bring himself to be angry. Betrayed, yes, but never angry. He couldn't. He was tired of fighting; tired of America's surprise attacks and courageous albeit daft tactics. Other nations had joined this battle, all siding with America; all waiting for this one, broken moment to finally put an end to all of this chaos.

"I guess this is goodbye," America stated gently, unshed tears still resting in his eyes. He wouldn't cry. He _couldn't_ cry because this is what he had wanted; what he still wanted. Freedom had a price, and America would have to take with it the unfortunate consequences.

England was too speechless to answer America, heart clenching painfully under his ribs. He felt as though he'd been stabbed, but it was by far a hundred, possibly a thousand, times worse. He tried to find his voice; tried to let America know that he was empathetic, and that he wasn't angry, just upset that things had had to unfold in such a brutal way.

"America, love," he panted through the cold rain, looking up into his ex-colony's eyes once more. "I understand."

America nodded slowly, chewing on his lower lip like a child again, refusing to give in to the tears biting at his eyes. The wind picked up and whipped around them, leaving both men shivering to the bone. America didn't know what he was supposed to do next, wishing he could just stay in this moment with England forever, never stepping foot outside the boundaries the man had set for him. He felt awful having to leave his older brother in the dust, but he had to do what was right for his people. This was what they had all wanted. They had all dreamed of this moment.

But America couldn't leave yet. He still felt as though there were some things that had to be said before the night could be put behind them. With a shaky inhalation, he said, "What happened? I remember when you used to be _great_."

The words sent England desperately clutching at the muddy dirt resting before him, trying to make sense of all of this; he wanted to keep some part of his little brother to himself. He sobbed and clawed through the sifting soil, unabated tears dripping from his chin and onto his hands.

"B-Britain?" America meekly called out through the darkness surrounding them, kneeling down just the slightest bit to meet his father figure's eyes.

England shuddered at the sound, feeling awful that America had refused to call him "England" as of late. "Britain" sounded much too informal for his liking; much too detached. "Go, America," he spoke hoarsely, refusing to witness the disappointment that was shining in those speculative, blue orbs. His face was directed toward the ground, body convulsing in panicked and cold shivers.

"Britain, look at me," America demanded patiently, placing a hand on England's shoulder through the ravenous storm. "Are you alright?"

England jumped up at the question. America was using the same tone of voice he had used all those years ago, when England had thought he had lost the fight for America to France. Yet, this time, the gesture wasn't as comforting as it once had been. He tore away from America's reach, swatting his hand away.

"No," he stated venomously, finally mustering up the strength to stand up and turn away from his brother. "It's just like you said America, we're no longer brothers, so you shouldn't be asking that question any longer. Goodbye, America," England spat coldly, spinning on his heel and trudging through the mud in the opposite direction.

America considered going after him, but ended up staying put, his soldiers holding him back from another angry outburst. England was an empire; he could take care of himself. A broken empire, but still an empire. America sighed, finally letting a few tears escape from his eyes as England disappeared into the misty night.

* * *

"Hey, Britain!" called an extremely vivacious voice that England knew all too well. With a tired sigh, the older nation turned his head ninety degrees to his left to meet America's twinkling eyes.

"Yes?" he asked impatiently.

"Dude! You'll never believe the new car designs my peeps back home came up with. You have to come and see it!" America informed in an irritatingly animated lilt.

Why had England agreed to become allies with this blithering idiot in World War II again?

'_Because you still see him as your little brother,' _a little voice in the back of his head innocently chimed.

"Honestly, America," he gave a long sigh, "I'm not in the mood today. Go find someone else to flaunt your minor accomplishments to."

America's previous gleaming grin faltered, quickly being replaced by a discontented frown. "Who put a stick up your butt today?" he teased, throwing his head back with another annoying smile.

England scowled. "Belt up, you sodding git. I have no energy to deal with your childish antics. My head has been aching all morning and I would appreciate it if—"

"SERIOUSLY? Your head hurts?" America interjected rather rudely, eyes studying England's slightly withered stance.

England growled, rubbing his temples to ease the migraine that had been plaguing him for the past few hours. America's booming voice wasn't helping it in the least. "Keep your voice down, would you?"

America ignored the request and grabbed England by the arm instead, dragging him down the corridor.

"W-What? Release me immediately!" England spluttered, slapping at America's wrist to no avail.

"I bet your own cooking just fried your brain," America scoffed playfully, keeping up a hasty pace as he walked past various rows of doors.

England's face flushed into a shade of blotchy red as he shot daggers at his former colony with his emerald eyes. "I'll have you know that my cooking is perfectly fine! There has just been a lot of work that has had to be done lately and I—"

"You haven't been sleeping," America cut in, finishing the statement for the older nation.

"You've been making it a habit to interrupt me at every possible opportunity, haven't you?" England snarled, still trying to squirm out of America's tight grip on his forearm.

America finally stopped his walking, shoving England into one of the rooms they had reached. "Lie down and sleep until our lunch break is over. I can bring you back a burger, if you want."

England rolled his eyes, but took a seat on the cot in the room anyway, eyes already drooping. "Must you even ask? You know that I don't eat that garbage.

"You might like it if you just gave it a chance," America countered, but his demeanor was still rather serious and docile. Was he actually showing genuine concern for his former, sovereign nation?

England curled up his lip in disgust. "I highly doubt that. Go, indulge in your greasy carbohydrates, but don't come whimpering to me when your boss scolds you for your high cholesterol levels the next time you get your blood taken. You're probably diabetic as it is, but your symptoms just haven't popped up yet."

"Whatever," America smirked dryly. "I'll see you later, dude. Don't die from a heart attack until I get back."

"The same could be said for you after your McDonald's meal," England grunted, kicking his boots off.

The younger of the two ignored the snide comment. "See yah," America waved to the other nation, making his way out the door.

"America?" England called out to his departing form.

"Yeah?" America replied, peeking his head back into the room.

England's face flushed again, cheeks burning. "Uh… T-Thanks."

America regarded the nation thoughtfully for a moment before cracking another smile and sticking his tongue out at the other man. "No problem. After all, I'll do whatever it takes to get that stick out of your—"

"SHUT IT!" England bellowed warningly, tossing a pillow at the door as forcefully as he could manage. "Wanker," he huffed under his breath, but smirked despite himself as he heard America's chuckles bounding off the walls. He settled down onto the cot he had occupied, ready to sleep off this horrible headache just so that he could go back to formulating more creative arguments against America as soon as possible.

_Maybe things were better this way._


	8. Set Your Differences Aside

**Author's Note: As promised, the fluff has returned. :) Enjoy! Thank you all for the lovely reviews once again.**

* * *

"Yes, sir, you may go in now. The doctor should be in any minute to check on him," a red-headed nurse spoke invitingly, beckoning over to the isolation room of the hospital. She held out a facemask to the visitor. "You should wear a mask as well, considering the virus is extremely contagious."

"Yes, thank you," replied a British accented voice nonchalantly. The man slipped on the medical mask hastily before entering the hospital room, concerned eyes roving over the sleeping figure in bed. He occupied the empty seat by the bedside, reaching out a hand to rub the sick person's arm soothingly.

The touch roused the other man awake, bloodshot blue eyes squinting at the bright lights in the room as a dark blond head of hair popped up from under a blanket.

"Britain?" America rasped, shuddering from a bout of chills.

England quickly retracted his hand from America's arm as though he had been scorched. "Who else would it be, you big git? I got a call from my boss last night saying you'd contracted H1N1 and jumped on the first, seven hour flight I could get when morning came around. Not to mention I waited in that blasted waiting room for two hours. You're healthcare system is pretty atrocious, you know that? But I reckon this is what you get for not properly washing your hands."

America smiled through his own medical mask, eyes crinkling with a warmth that was seemingly ignited by the man's lecturing. "You were worried."

England's face reddened considerably. "W-Worried? Why would I be? You're no longer my colony."

"No, but we're allies. Always have been," America pointed out, letting out a small cough in the process. "And you look funny in that mask."

"Speak for yourself," England huffed, but fussed over America's blankets when another shiver tore through the man's body. "I'll tell the nurse to bring in another blanket."

"No, it's okay. It's just the fever."

England reached out a hand out to feel America's forehead, frowning at how warm the skin underneath his palm was.

"I'm fine, dude. A little flu is nothing a hero can't handle," America reassured before letting out a few, scratchy sneezes.

"Bless," England tutted in disapproval. "Did the doctor mention when you could go home?"

"Three days at the earliest," America mumbled, coughing more roughly.

England grimaced; that cough sounded bloody awful. He patted America's back as the man tried to catch his breath again, hacking miserably into the medical mask adjusted around his head. Finally, he quieted, sniffling pitifully.

"Do you need a tissue?" England asked, not waiting for an answer as he passed the small, cardboard box over to his former colony.

"Thanks," America mumbled, voice muffled through his mask as he pulled a couple of tissues out of the box and scrubbed his nose clean. England took the box back from America and placed it on the bedside table before noticing the IV in America's arm. "Are you getting some kind of medication?" he asked curiously pointing over to the IV bag hanging adjacent to the opposite side of the bed.

"No, that's just so I don't dehydrate," America croaked in reply, clearing his throat. "They say all they can do is weaken my symptoms until the virus just runs its course, or whatever."

"Why are they keeping you in the hospital if they can only provide symptomatic relief?" England interrogated, making America's head ache even more than it had before.

"Ugh," the American groaned once more, rubbing his temples as he waited for his thoughts to catch up with him. "Gotta take precautions in case of complications and stuff cause they don't know much about the virus, yet. Besides, they say that it's not good for me to be home alone with a high fever in case something goes wrong and there's no one to help."

England's frown grew deeper at that, but he didn't say anything in return. Just then, America's doctor walked into the room, clipboard and medical file at hand.

"Alfred, how are you feeling, pal?" he queried, putting on his mask and walking over to America's bedside.

"Not good," America coughed again, breathing heavily.

"You're killing me here, kid. Alright, take your mask off for a minute while I examine you," the doctor ordered before turning to England. "Oh, hello! You're family, I presume?"

Not wanting to get kicked out, England nodded, feigning confidence. "I'm his brother, Arthur."

"It's nice to meet you, Arthur. I'm Dr. Edmonds. Don't you worry; we'll have your brother fixed up in no time," he reassured, putting on his stethoscope with an air of expertise. "Sit up for me, Al."

America groaned weakly, trying to lift himself up. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so lifeless and fatigued. In the end, England had to heave him up under his arms to get him resting against the headboard, eyes brimming with deep concern.

The doctor listened to America's lungs and heart, asking him to cough a few times before letting out a sad sigh. "It's starting to settle into your chest," he frowned, placing a digital thermometer under America's tongue. It beeped just a few seconds later. "102.8," he announced and England quickly did the conversion to Celsius in his head (39.3).

"I'll have the nurse give you some more Tylenol and we'll keep you on the Tamiflu to help lessen your other symptoms. I'm afraid all there is left to do is wait," Dr. Edmonds explained after taking America's blood pressure.

"Open wide," he then ordered, taking out a tongue depressor and otoscope to check America's throat. He frowned once more at the sight. "I'll see if we could get you something warm to drink from the cafeteria. In fact, you should try to eat a little something if you can stomach it; our IV fluids can only go so far," he suggested, feeling America's swollen lymph nodes by massaging both hands on either side of his neck. "Rest up and I'll be back in another hour to see how things are going, okay?"

"Thanks. You're the best," America smiled, proud that his citizens were so competent in their fields.

"Anytime, bud. You better get well soon, or I'm gonna come after you. I'm sure your brother will take good care of you until I get back." Dr. Edmonds added before making his way out of the room.

"Brother?" America smiled mockingly at England before pulling his mask back on.

"Shut it," England scowled, "You used to be proud to call me that before you became a tosser."

America's smile was unwavering. "I think I like you better as an ally. That way, we're equals."

"Pft, anyone with half a mind could see that I'm far superior to you," England teased with a light smirk.

"No, you just—" America cut himself off, coughing violently again.

"Hush," England commanded, helping America lower himself onto his pillows again. "You're getting much too excited. Have you forgotten that you should be resting? Go back to sleep, wanker."

America crossed his arms indignantly, "Kill joy. I've slept long enough. You think they have any good videogames here? It's usually only the pediatric, ICU kids that get all the fun stuff, but maybe I could work something out. Plus, they get all the good TV channels."

"First of all, videogames will rot what little brains you have. Secondly, you're not a child anymore. Thirdly, you're not in the ICU. Lastly, _you're an idiot!_" England hissed, slapping America's hand lightly. Nonetheless, he turned on the small television that was hanging on the wall; its buzzing filling the room as CNBC came on the screen.

"Ugh, not the news," America scrunched up his nose in disgust with another sniffle. "All they are talking about is the swine flu." He picked up the TV remote that was attached to the bed and flipped through the channels, settling on some cartoons.

England resisted the urge to roll his eyes and settled back into his seat by America's bedside.

"Are you staying?" America questioned him, eyes still glued to the Spongebob episode that was airing.

England bit his bottom lip in uncertainty. "For a little while, I suppose. Unless, you feel uncomfortable with me sta—"

"No, no, it's nothing like that, dude. I was just wondering, that's all," America reassured. "Thanks… Y'know… For visiting and stuff. It sucked being here alone for the past day and a half. They stuck a bunch of needles in me and I was mostly delirious when I got here."

"Say, America," England began softly. "How did you end up here? Did you come by yourself?"

"My boss noticed how cruddy I was feeling and told me to come after hearing about the outbreak. He came in and helped me get admitted, but he didn't stick around for long. He's been busy with everything that's been going on," America elaborated, letting out a small yawn.

"You've been alone since then? What about the other nations? No one came to make sure everything was okay?" England asked hopefully, starting to feel awfully guilty for some odd reason.

"They texted me and asked how I was doing, but most of them are too afraid that they'll catch it too," America shrugged, seemingly unfazed by it all.

"Bloody cowards," England muttered with a frown. "You shouldn't be alone when you're so ill."

"Doesn't matter. I'm the hero. I don't need people waiting over me," America reassured, grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose.

"Oh, don't be so pompous, git. Everyone needs some help occasionally," England lectured just as a middle-aged woman walked in with a small cart of food. She smiled comfortingly at America, who happily returned the gesture even though his mask was still on. He had mastered the art of smiling with only his eyes.

"Hello, sweetheart. Lunch is served. The extra hot chocolate is courtesy of Dr. Edmonds," she conversed casually, smacking her gum. "Enjoy, darlin', and feel better soon."

"Thanks, babe," America replied hoarsely, eyes affectionate. He had the ability to woo anyone without even realizing it. The woman waved goodbye and walked out, leaving the room silent apart from the humming of the television once more.

England stood up and helped turn the multipurpose cart around so that it acted as a tray hovering along the surface of America's bed. Surely enough, there was a Styrofoam cup on the edge of the tray-like cart, filled with steaming hot chocolate and a single, mini marshmallow. For lunch he had been given some strawberry gelatin, apple juice, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"Ugh… I don't think I can eat anything right now. Did you know that you get to order what you want for breakfast, lunch and dinner when you're admitted for more than one night?" America asked absently, still glowering at the food in front of him.

"That explains why your choice of sandwich is so childish," England remarked, smiling knowingly.

"What? PB and J is the best!" America pronounced defensively, but clutched his stomach painfully after a moment. "Just not right now…" he droned, pushing the cart of food away with both hands.

"Oh, no you don't," England admonished, fixing the tray into its original position and tugging the mask off of America's face. "You need to eat to recover. The doctor was very clear about that. Furthermore, you should have something in your stomach before they bring you any medication."

"Ugh, I don't want to, man. I'm gonna be sick if I do," America declined stubbornly, shivering again.

"Just a little bit, then," England prodded, opening up the apple juice carton and sticking a straw into it before holding it up to America's lips. "Drink, but in small sips."

"Don't tell me _you're_ going to feed me," America grumbled unhappily, folding his arms.

"You seem quite incapable of doing it yourself, considering your condition. I guess it's my responsibility to intervene," England concluded firmly before nearly stabbing the straw through America's lips. "I said 'drink'."

America scowled, but parted his lips ever so slightly, drinking the juice without further comment albeit begrudgingly.

"Good. See? You _can_ be docile when you try," England teased, pulling away the juice once America had decided he didn't want anymore. Next, he plucked off a bit of the peanut butter sandwich and held it out to America. "Open up. Peanuts have protein."

"I really don't feel up to it right now, so could you just—"

But England wasn't giving up so soon. He had fed America many times before when he'd been just a colony and knew that there was still hope. "Here comes the train to London," he joked, taking full advantage of the opportunity to tease America as he flourished the sandwich in front of his face. When would he ever get to do this again? Personally, he'd missed putting his parental techniques into action. "It has to go into the tunnel, America, or all the civilians will be trapped in France. You have to save them."

America flushed in embarrassment. This was exactly what England had said when he was just a little boy and refused to eat. Reluctantly, he took the sandwich piece and chewed on it just to shut England up.

"There we go," England smiled in satisfaction, holding up the apple juice to America's mouth once more. The bedridden figure sipped it without complaint, determined to eat so that he could puke on England later to make him pay for all this antagonizing.

"I can feed myself, Britain," America stated indignantly, though he doubted he could even lift his arms at this rate, and it would be painful to eat with both hands considering his left arm still had an IV in it.

England looked at him skeptically and took a step back. "Alright then, fend for yourself. Let's see you eat."

America pursed his lips and lugged a shaky hand forward, reaching for the juice once more with unsteady fingers. He brought the carton closer to himself and promptly dropped it. It would have spilled all over the bed sheets had England not foreseen the incident and grabbed the juice before it was too late.

"Ah, you were saying?" England raised an eyebrow as if to say, 'I told you so'.

"Whatever," America mumbled before turning over on his side and sulking, avoiding both England and the stupid food.

England felt his heart clench in sympathy. America really was still so young—barely an adult— and to see him so ill and so upset was disheartening in and of itself.

"It's alright, lad. I apologize for upsetting you. You shouldn't be getting upset when you're ill. Sit up and we'll try again, without the teasing this time," England suggested, shaking America's shoulder.

Eventually, he managed to feed him almost half of the sandwich and nearly all of the apple juice. Still, the amount of food he had ingested seemed like such a tiny amount compared to how much America usually ate. England tried not to worry too much, but he just couldn't help himself.

"Would you like some of the gelatin, perhaps?" he encouraged.

"No, thanks," America hastily snapped, turning back to the next Spongebob episode that had just come on. Apparently, there was a marathon.

"I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help."

America sighed. "I know, dude. I'm sorry. This fever is making me a whiny basta—"

"Language," England chided calmly.

America grinned cheekily, lying back against his pillows. "Thanks for everything, man, even though I'm required to go back to hating you after this."

"Of course," England smirked, "bloody wanker."

Soon, a man returned to take the cart away along with the extra food, leaving America's untouched, hot chocolate on the bedside table. The nurse arrived shortly after that, with a fresh mask and some more pills for America to take. He easily complied, desperately wanting relief from this horrible virus at any cost and swallowed the medication with the help of his hot chocolate.

And thus, time passed quietly in the hospital room with England occasionally stepping out to go to the cafeteria to eat, stretch his legs, or to use the restroom. He'd never be gone for more than twenty minutes, always returning loyally to the chair by America's bedside, sitting with him and talking about everything from the weather to the economy. Dr. Edmonds would check in every hour or two, depending on how busy he was. On the other hand, a nurse came in about every forty-five minutes to take America's temperature and blood pressure.

And before the pair knew it, it was after dinnertime and England was getting ready to leave for the night, leaving America alone in the care of the hospital for the rest of the night, considering visiting hours were ending.

"Are you going to come back tomorrow?" America asked, hoping he didn't sound _too_ eager.

"Yes, I'll be back in the morning. Now, it's about time you go to sleep and get some proper rest. I trust you have your cellphone hidden in here somewhere so it doesn't get taken away? Supposedly, you aren't allowed to use a phone on this floor."

America nodded, pointing to the inside of his pillowcase with a smile.

"Good lad," England said appraisingly. "Call me if anything happens and mind that fever of yours. Call the nurse if you feel the slightest bit worse for wear, since I won't be here to do it for you. And—"

"I got it, dude. Don't smother me," America chuckled softly, already feeling sleepy.

"And don't get into any trouble," England finished his previous thought pointedly. "Alright, then. Get well soon."

"'G'night, Britain. Thanks again, man," America waved goodbye, watching as England turned out the light in his room and left, entering out into the brightly lit hallway.

* * *

"ALFRED!" England roared as he picked up some prescriptions from the nurses' station, "Stop racing down the corridor in that wheelchair this instant or I'm leaving you here!"

"He's certainly feeling better," the brunette nurse he was speaking with commented with a cheery smile.

"Yes, God help me," England drawled, "Thank you for your help. Good day."

"Bye, dear."

England rushed down the hall to catch up with America, both of their coats in his arms as he jogged at what he hoped was still a dignified pace after the recently discharged patient. Now, he was _England's _patient. The doctor had agreed to allow America to go home only if he would be supervised by England for the next three days. Then, the seven day contagion period would end, and England would happily go back to London where he belonged. But until then, he was stuck with the nitwit.

He grabbed the handles of the wheelchair America had been allowed to ride in for the rest of the trip to the car, bringing his race to a screeching halt.

"Slow down or it's back into that isolation room for you," England threatened, his face now mask- free as opposed to America, who was still forced to wear his for a few more days just to be on the safe side.

America immediately became subdued, but fired up with energy again when England tried to help him put his jacket on.

"It's May!" he argued, "I don't need a jacket."

"It's very windy and you're ill," England retorted, slipping the bomber jacket onto the other man. "Therefore, you will bundle up accordingly."

The nation rolled America down the hall and into the elevator, bringing them to the lobby of the hospital.

"Honestly, how did I get stuck with you?" England groaned, pushing America to the main entrance, where he was forced to abandon his wheelchair. He stood up grumpily, one arm wrapped around the older nation's shoulders for support as they walked to America's car (courtesy of England). The younger nation had given him his keys last night in preparation for their departure.

England opened the passenger seat door and helped America get settled before sliding into the driver's seat.

"I don't feel comfortable with you driving an _American_ car," America emphasized, sitting up anxiously.

"Oh, relax. I know how to drive one of these things. We can't let you drive. You're still feverish."

"Am not," America countered. "I could still drive even if I were half-dead, dude. That's what heroes do."

"Belt up. You had a 101.2 temperature an hour ago, and I doubt that it has improved with you out of bed. So, hush," England ordered dryly, revving up the engine and backing out of their parking space flawlessly. He drove down the streets with a cocky grin. "What was it you were so worried about before, America?"

"Oh, shut up," America smirked, laying his head back against the seat, face paling just the slightest bit.

England drove down a few more blocks before pulling over into America's driveway. He helped America out of the car and guided him to the front door, allowing the younger man to unlock it. Once inside, America made a move toward his couch, but England pulled him back.

"No, you're going up to bed. You'll be more comfortable," the older nation stated sternly, helping America up the stairs and onto his bed. By the time he was changed into more comfortable clothing, the younger nation was completely devoid of energy, tuckered out, and ready for a long nap.

"I feel like an old man. I can't do anything," America moaned, cursing his weak limbs.

"You've had a high fever for the entire half of this week. It's only natural that you're peaky," England consoled, turning the television on quietly for America and handing him the remote. "Stay in bed and rest. I'm going to go tidy up and prepare some dinner."

"No, Britain. Please, if you really, truly, care about my health, you won't cook for me," America begged, eyes widening.

England rolled his eyes with an offended scoff. "Don't worry; I'm sure you have some of those packaged soups downstairs."

"Yeah, make some Cup Noodles. All you need to do is boil water," America recommended, calming down after feeling reassured that England wasn't going to wreak any havoc in his kitchen.

England nodded, heading for the threshold. He shut the blinds on his way out and closed the bedroom door halfway, so that he'd be able to hear any signs of distress from the other nation. However, he never made it down the hallway because America hoarsely called after him.

"Yes, America?" he asked, quirking a bushy eyebrow.

"…Thanks, _England_."

England felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at the way America had referred to him. "Y-Yes, of course… Get some sleep, lad."

"Still brothers?" America whispered timidly, lifting his head up from his pillows.

England frowned slightly, gaze falling to the carpet. "How about just _friends_, for now?"

America scrunched his red-tinted nose up in thought. "Brothers can't be friends. Brothers are _supposed _to fight and hate each other, but they always make up in the end."

England felt his eyes prickle uncomfortably. "Fine… _Brothers…"_

America smiled cordially in approval. "'Kay, now go make that soup. I won't wait around all day."

England scowled, glaring at America warningly, unsure of whether to feel touched or extremely irritated at the other man.

_Just as it was supposed to be. _


	9. Slay The Monsters

Somehow, England had allowed himself to be suckered by America into spending his short stay in New York at his former colony's house, much to his chagrin. It wasn't an unusual occurrence for the two to be spending time together. In fact, the pair spent most of their leisure time together, despite their supposed loathing of each other. Part of this was due to England and America having been drinking 'buddies' (as America so eloquently phrased it) for quite some time now. The younger nation would always request to see the newest movies with his former mentor, normally choosing a three-hour long action film before persuading England to come play videogames for the remainder of the night or something equally ridiculous.

And, personally, England didn't mind the companionship, however tiresome it may have been as of late. He couldn't imagine that anyone else would ever invite him to see 'Justin Bieber's: Never Say Never' movie over nine times (England had gotten his revenge for that little ploy by taking America to see 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part Two' _ten_ times), and he secretly enjoyed the younger man's free-spirited (euphemism for obnoxious) attitude as well as his antics. Perhaps, he hadn't done such a poor job in raising the child, after all.

Needless to say, he'd spent the entire day watching street performers, eating heart-attack inducing food, and browsing through more ridiculous videogames with the younger nation, causing him to be completely drained of energy by the time he had returned to the guestroom.

Then, he basked in the pleasure of a well-deserved sleep, dreaming of sitting on a beach in the middle of summer, a chilled margarita in one hand and a good book in the other. Dark sunglasses were perched on his nose, and a sunhat nested on his head as he flipped through the pages of his reading in total bliss. Nothing could ruin his relaxation time at this rate, warm sunshine bathing his sunscreen covered torso while his feet were plunged into the sand. He took another sip of his alcoholic beverage, throat burning and head spinning with a pleased sigh as he stretched his legs out further.

The ocean tossed and turned under the horizon as others swam and played in the glistening water, faces lit up with pure glee.

_Could things get any better than this? _

England made a move to turn to the next page of his book when—

SLAM!

He jolted up in bed, gasping heavily in fear as his eyes flittered around the room, trying to find the source of the ruckus that had rudely awakened his slumbering form. _The nerve of it all. _

Seeing no major threat in his vicinity, England began to wonder if perhaps he had imagined the sound and roused himself out of his own dream, but was able to hastily reject that possibility as a similar sound reverberated through the house seconds later.

Vigilantly, England got out of bed and put on his slippers, wrapping his bathrobe more tightly around himself before shuffling over to the threshold. His eyes quickly caught sight of America's lone, baseball bat peeking out of the closet and his hands reacted by grabbing it without a second thought. A baseball bat was no replacement for a gun, but he supposed it was better than having no weapon at all. Perhaps, America had a gun stashed in one of his dresser drawers or—

_Where in God's name was America, anyway?_

Clutching the baseball bat more roughly, England made a move toward America's bedroom to make sure he was unharmed (though he wasn't concerned in the least), stealthily swinging the door open only to find the American's bed void of an occupant.

England sighed, lowering the baseball bat in embarrassment. Obviously, America had caused the clamor, seeing as he was up and about somewhere in the house. Still wary, England stood the bat up against the wall of the room before shutting the door to the bedroom once more and making his descent downstairs.

And, lo and behold, America was sitting on the living room couch, laptop in his lap and fingers sifting through a bag of potato chips on the coffee table.

"America, I thought you went to bed hours ago; after I endured an entire marathon of 'The Real Housewives of New Jersey' with you!" England growled, but was met with no reply as America's eyes remained glued to his computer screen. "Are you even listening to me, you bloody tosser? You woke me! What the hell were you doing down here?"

**"..."**

England finally took notice of the headphones in America's ears as the man shoveled another handful of greasy potato chips into his mouth. His hands quivered as he finished chewing and started clacking against the keyboard again.

Fed up, England stormed behind America's reclined form and ripped the headphones out of his ears, resulting in an earsplitting scream emitting from his former colony's mouth that would have been hilarious had England not been so furious.

"OH MY GOD! SLENDERMAN'S GOT ME!" America roared, screwing his eyes shut and covering his ears with his hands before screaming like a banshee again.

England stood stiffly in place. What in the world was a 'slenderman'? Had America been watching another horror movie? The man rarely watched scary movies on his own, seeing as he'd always needed someone to cling to halfway through (England's arm was usually the victim).

The elder nation pried America's hands away from his ears, hissing dangerously, "It's only me, you stupid git."

America seemed to hyperventilate for a moment before calming down, revolving his head around to get a good look at England in order to assure himself that there was no real threat to his safety. With a relieved sigh and a wide yawn, America went quiet, moving his laptop to the coffee table and shutting it.

"Heh, sorry about that, dude," he awkwardly grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Caught me off guard, y'know?"

England resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "America, what on earth is a 'Slenderman'?"

America visibly blanched, shrinking in fear at the word. England took notice of his still trembling hands as the nation sat up, crumpling the now empty bag of chips.

"It's just a computer game," he replied uncertainly, as if to convince himself of the fact as well. "I've been trying to beat it ever since we finished watching 'Housewives'. Slenderman creeps up behind you and takes you away into the night."

England inwardly groaned. According to the information he'd just received, he was certain America would have difficulty in getting any proper sleep tonight. How predictable of him. The man was truly still a child at heart; barely an adult.

"Don't tell me you're frightened by a fictional character in a videogame, America," England antagonized for old time's sake, his face splitting into a rare smile.

"No!" America responded defensively like a petulant five-year-old denying his role in causing mischief.

England grinned even more widely. "Alright then, America. I suppose I'll just be going back up to bed then. Please try to keep it down this time. Goodnight."

America frowned after England's retreating form, biting his lip in apprehension. Part of him wanted to shout after England to have him stay with him, but the other didn't want to let his pride take such a ferocious hit.

"Goodnight," America finally murmured, deciding he'd have to just suck it up and move on with his life. He was a hero! He wasn't afraid of any face-less man with skinny arms and legs. In fact, he soon mimicked England's movements and raised himself off the couch to return to bed as well.

Yet, as soon as he turned his back to go up the staircase, America twisted his body around to make sure a certain scary figure wasn't following him. He repeated this action several times before making it to his bedroom door, hands sweaty in trepidation. He spared himself a glimpse of England's closed door and glowered, dragging himself back to bed.

As he pulled the bedcovers back, a gust of wind brushed against his shoulder from the open window and he whimpered in fear, picturing white tentacles squirming toward his form to steal him from the world he'd always known and loved. Swallowing the rock in his throat, he tried to ease himself onto his bed, but couldn't find the strength to do so, eyes scrutinizing the tree outside of the window. Did those branches look suspiciously like arms?

Admitting his defeat to the mental battle taking place in his brain, America dashed out of his room and rammed down the door to England's bedroom, eyes bulging and hands shaking more fervently than ever before.

"E-England," he whined from the doorway, snatching a quick look behind him and into the hallway. "Englaaaaand, wake up!"

Groaning, said man sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes tiredly. "What do you want now, America?"

"I-I came to protect you from Slenderman," he clumsily lied, a sad pout working its way involuntarily on his face. He felt like a sheepish colony all over again, running to England for protection from the dark.

"You can't sleep?" England had guessed correctly, fully knowing the true reason behind America's restlessness. He'd raised him from a toddler; he knew him like a book.

America spared him an answer, leaning against the door anxiously instead. "He's going to get us!"

England wearily smiled, nostalgia working its way through his veins as he went into mother-hen mode. Without further comment, he rose from his temporary bed and made his way over to America, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Come along," he urged, treading back downstairs and to the kitchen with the young nation in tow. "You shouldn't have had all those crisps at such a late hour," he chided lightly, opening up the door of the refrigeration and removing a carton of milk from one of the shelves. He poured a healthy amount into a small pot and set it on the stove, warming it up.

"They're called 'chips', man. What are you doing anyway? I don't need warm milk to help me sleep!" America scowled indignantly. "I'm not a little kid anymore; it doesn't work on me."

"Hush," England huffed. "Do you want to feel better or not?"

America grumbled something unpleasant under his breath and a few words about Brits being 'so uptight it should be illegal', but made no further argument, plopping himself down in a chair by the kitchen table.

A few moments later, England turned the burner off and poured the steamy milk into one of America's mugs that was most appropriately captioned, 'Healthy food makes me sick', before setting it in front of the sulking American.

"Drink," England commanded, taking a seat across from his former colony and rubbing his face drowsily.

America unhappily took a disdainful sip of the milk before risking to speak again. "You used to give me milk whenever I refused to go to sleep because I'd snuck too many cookies out of the cupboard again. I used to get high on sugar," he mused with a smirk gracing his lips before drinking another mouthful of milk.

"It worked like magic. Honestly, you were such an active child. It's a surprise I haven't spotted any gray hairs on my head yet," England said breathily around another yawn, covering his mouth absentmindedly.

America gave off his own yawn as well, warm milk rushing down his throat and settling into his stomach, spreading its warmth around the entire perimeter of his body.

"That's right, lad," England encouraged, noticing America's increasingly sluggishness and docile mood. "Just shut your eyes for a moment and relax."

America finished the final sip of his milk and pushed the mug away, eyes drooping as he slumped over the table. "What time is it?" he murmured quietly, stifling the next yawn.

"Almost three in the morning," England informed softly, too tired to be annoyed at America for keeping him up at such an atrociously late hour. "Feeling sleepy yet?"

"No… S-Slenderman is still out there," America groaned through half-open eyes, spinning around to check behind his chair for the monster.

England scoffed and rose up from his seat. "Will you stop going on about that silly, _fictional_ creature? Off to bed with you; hurry up," he demanded, guiding the groggy nation up the steps and to his bedroom. Once America had finally lain down and had been properly tucked in, England continued to fret like a worried mother.

"You aren't getting a sufficient amount of sleep with all of this caffeine you've been ingesting as of late. It isn't healthy in the least and it's going to kill your heart sooner or later," he scolded, trudging to the guestroom and back with a newly acquired, small bottle at hand.

"What's that?" America mumbled, stubbornly refusing to fall asleep in fear of the mythical creature he still believed to be stalking him from a distance. He'd never managed to collect all eight pages of the game; always getting stuck at page six or seven.

"Lavender essence oil," England muttered impatiently, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Give me your wrists."

The younger nation complied, not wanting to aggravate the sleep deprived nation any further. England could get quite frightening when pushed to his limits. He extended his wrists forward, laying them on England's awaiting lap. His former guardian placed a few drops of the oil onto one of his wrists, massaging the substance into his skin thoroughly before moving on to the next hand.

"You carry lavender scented oil around with you?" America murmured disbelievingly, not knowing whether to laugh or be concerned.

"It's the perfect home remedy for insomnia. Now, shush," England retorted, releasing America's wrists. He hoped to get back to bed as soon as possible, unsure of whether or not he would be able to refrain from collapsing out of exhaustion till then. "Now, I want you to close your eyes and picture the park I used to always take you to when you were just a colony in Virginia. Remember the chirping birds, the stillness of the lake, the yellow grass, and your favorite part of all, the swings."

America sighed contentedly, though his lips curved into a mild frown at the memories.

"Remember how you used to always beg me to push you higher and higher until you felt as though you were touching the sky. Remember how fearless you were when you _foolishly_ jumped from the swing like a madman and landed in the grass, only realizing your mistake _after _you made contact with the ground. You'd thought you were invincible, yet you cried and cried like there was no tomorrow," England recalled softly, closing his own eyes with a sly smile.

America frowned, cracking his eyes open. "This story isn't as happy as it started out, England. I'll never fall asleep like this."

But England dismissed the complaint, ordering him to close his eyes once more before continuing with the tale. "You cried and cried until I was convinced there were no more tears remaining in the world. Thus, I gathered you into my arms and carried you home, where you were promptly bandaged with plasters before being fed the most cavity-inducing food stuffs I could find. I kissed your battle wounds in a way that normally made everything 'all better', yet you still sniveled into my shirt when I sat beside you on the couch. As a matter-of-fact, I'm willing to bet that my shirt is _still_ wet from that little adventure. Because, you see, the tears that fell from your eyes that day were not dominated by pain, but by the realization that you had fallen from your highest point; failed to stay at the top. Then, you asked me how something so fun could go so drastically wrong and I explained to you that happiness can only be experienced in intervals and that the greatest satisfaction in life is felt when you fall down, but persistently stand up and brush yourself off again. I told you that there was no need to be sad or fearful of the past, but to move on and take pride in the challenges you'd overcome and to look forward to the many, great things you would accomplish in the future."

America let a ghost of a smile grace his lips at the memory, relaxing into the mattress and completely forgetting about Slenderman.

"And I was right; you would accomplish great things in the future. That didn't stop you from transforming into an obnoxious prat though," England finished with a scoff, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Hey!" America chuckled subtly, eyes still shut as he began to drift off.

England allowed himself a sardonic smirk, observing America's resting form for a few, extra minutes. By the time he had prepared himself to leave the room, the younger nation was softly snoring, already far gone in a world of dreams.

The mother-hen in England caused him to pluck America's spectacles off of his nose and fold them on the bedside table before brushing back a few, scattered strands of dark blond hair from his former colony's forehead.

"Sleep tight; don't let the Slenderman bite," England whispered jokingly, making sure America was as comfortable as possible before making his way back to the guestroom to return to his dream of his day on the beach.

He dozed off rather quickly, finding himself back on the bright beach with his beverage. He settled into his beach chair and adjusted his position under the parasol above him before kicking back once more.

However, his peaceful aura was cut short when a volleyball came hurtling from his far right, colliding with his cheek rather painfully. Fuming, England broke away from his chair to search for the culprit, only to find a familiar American rushing over to him to apologize for the trouble before inviting him to play a match of beach volleyball. Planning to get back at America for ruining his peace even in his dream-state, he agreed. Moments later, he was in a full-blown fight with the American after arguing over a debatable net-violation. They plummeted into the sand and began to wring each other's necks, only to be pulled apart by a lifeguard that suspiciously resembled Germany.

Well, boys would be boys, no matter how gentlemanly they tried to be perceived as.


End file.
